


A Question of Trust

by Vernon (Fielding)



Category: Depeche Mode
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-08
Updated: 2017-06-08
Packaged: 2018-11-10 19:13:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 35,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11132988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fielding/pseuds/Vernon
Summary: AU. Dave's a rock star trying to revive his career, and Alan's the journalist assigned to take him down. It's not exactly love at first sight. Originally posted on LJ in 2010.





	1. Chapter 1

Alan was leaning back in his chair, happily sipping at his second cup of coffee of the morning and brainstorming possible sources for his story, when he saw Fletch walk out of his glass-walled office and stand at the head of the newsroom, his hands on his hips and that deep crease of a frown on his face. Alan knew that look. It meant Fletch had a terrible assignment in mind, and he was looking for a warm body to abuse.

Fletch headed toward Alan.

“Fuck,” Alan muttered, and he quickly picked up his telephone to dial a number – any number – but he wasn’t fast enough.

“How’s the story coming?” Fletch said, hovering over Alan’s cubicle. He knew bloody well that Alan was stuck.

“Great,” Alan lied, hanging up the phone. “I’ve got messages out for all the major labels, and a guy at Slugfest says he can get me an interview with that Romanian band you like.”

“Do they speak English?”

Alan had no idea. He hadn’t actually talked to anyone at Slugfest Records. “Yeah.”

“Good, good,” Fletch said, and he rubbed his hands together, the calluses on his palms making a dry, rasping sound like sandpaper that Alan hated. “So in the meantime, it looks like you’ve got a little time on your hands.”

“Well, no, not really,” Alan said, shaking his head. He made a show of shifting papers around his messy desk, digging for a notebook that had a few phone numbers scribbled in it, but mostly a bunch of half-written lyrics and doodles. “I still need to call Metro Records, and I’m hoping to get an interview for this afternoon with Miller over at Mute.”

“Perfect!” Fletch said. “Dan Miller’s just the bloke you need to talk to for this story.”

“You said I’d have all week to write the Eastern European story!”

“You still will. This one won’t even take half a day.”

Alan sighed. Fucking editors – they’d bleed you dry if they could. He set his coffee aside and picked up a pen. “Fine. What’s the story?”

“Dave Gahan.”

“Fuck, c’mon, Fletch,” Alan said. “Not another fucking aging rock-star profile.”

“Hey, watch who you call aging! He’s only 32, maybe 33. Think he’s younger than both of us, actually.”

Alan waved a hand in dismissal. “They age faster than blokes like you and me. All that hard living. Anyway, isn’t that guy still in rehab?”

“No. His people say he’s sober,” Fletch said. “Look, it’ll be a cinch. In and out, an hour interview, you’ll be done by end of tomorrow.”

Fletch dropped a press packet on Alan’s desk, and Alan flipped through the glossy pages, rolling his eyes at the daft rock-star photos and the reviews of old albums – some of them from eight or ten years ago. He groaned to himself when he reached the last page, which was an interview schedule for the following day.

“Great, I’m last,” Alan said, noting the time for his publication. “He’s going to be a bloody fantastic interview after five hours with the bloggers and gossip columnists.”

“Don’t knock it. Dan did us a favor giving us the last spot. You’ll have loads of time to hassle Gahan.”

It was true – the last spot was coveted because there was no risk of getting bumped mid-interview when the next so-called reporter showed up. Not that Alan was particularly eager to spend any extra time on this one.

“Anyway,” Fletch said, “I’m sure you’ll be your usual brilliant self.” Alan didn’t miss the obvious note of sarcasm in his voice.

“I hate you, boss,” Alan said. He rubbed his eyes. “I really, really do.”

“Call Dan Miller to confirm,” Fletch said. “And check out a camera. You’ll need to shoot Gahan yourself.”

“Course I will,” Alan said.

“And you’ll have that Eastern European rock ‘explosion’ story in by Friday, yeah?” Fletch said, complete with mocking air-quotes.

“Sure,” Alan said. “Slave driver.”

“Bloody right,” Fletch said, and walked away.

Alan sighed. It was only Monday, and already this was shaping up to be a disaster of a week.

 

+++

 

Alan spent the rest of the day at his desk, researching Dave Gahan. He started by downloading a few of his hits – Alan had only a passing familiarity with his music – and playing them on repeat while he checked his own publication’s electronic archive for stories they’d already written on Gahan. There was plenty of material, because Gahan had gone through a very ugly, and very public, few years where he’d fallen prey to pretty much every rock star cliché imaginable. Bad marriage, reckless behavior, nearly-fatal heroin addiction – check, check, and check. The only thing remotely remarkable about Gahan’s story was that he hadn’t yet dropped off the face of the planet.

Still, his music wasn’t half bad, Alan had to admit. The lyrics were catchy enough and the music was rich and layered with interesting sounds and beats. It was a bit too commercial for Alan’s personal taste, but then, he was a music journalist – he couldn’t afford to be too discerning when it came to pop songs. A bit more research revealed that Gahan didn’t actually write his own music – that responsibility fell to his long-time songwriting partner, Martin Gore – but by all reports, Gahan was a lot more involved in producing his albums than most pop singers.

Gahan had a new album set for release – his first in four years, apparently, since he’d gotten out of rehab and started putting his life back together. The first single was doing all right, climbing steadily up the charts. Alan played that song more than the others, listening for something to set it apart. It did seem mellower, and certainly less upbeat, and Alan also thought it sounded a little bitter and melancholic. But it was hard to tell, and Alan wondered if he was just projecting his own bad mood onto the music.

Alan left work late, and he plugged his iPod into his car stereo and kept playing Gahan’s songs on the drive home, which did little to help with the frustration of dealing with traffic on the 405 freeway. He’d been living in Los Angeles for five years, and still he hadn’t been able to figure out the traffic patterns. It seemed like every hour was rush hour in L.A.

He took out a notebook and jotted down some questions for Gahan as he inched forward on the freeway. Alan wasn’t expecting a great story out of this one, but he’d never been able to half-ass any assignment, no matter how stupid and trite. Fletch might’ve been taking the piss with him, but it was true – Alan intended to be his usual brilliant self when he interviewed Dave Gahan.

 

+++

 

Dave stood out on the balcony, blinking into the sun that was just starting to dip toward the sea. It wouldn’t be dark yet for a couple of hours, and he didn’t really care for this time of day, especially in Los Angeles, where the smog made everything seem dull and gritty. He tapped his cigarette into the hotel coffee mug and took another deep drag. He’d been trying to limit his cigarettes today, so he didn’t reek of smoke during the interviews and give the hounds a bit of meaty gossip to chew on – Dave Gahan, trading one bad habit for another. But he’d been at it for hours and he was exhausted and irritable and he still had one more bloody reporter to meet. He could hardly believe there had been a time in his life when he’d enjoyed talking to journalists.

The sliding glass door opened behind him, and Dave took one more long drag, savoring that last hit of nicotine.

“He’s here,” Daryl said.

Dave blew out a long stream of smoke. “On a scale of 1 to 10, how big of a bastard is he?”

“About an 8.”

“Fuck,” Dave said. “All right. Let’s get it over with.”

He saw right away that Daryl was right – actually, he might have even underestimated this bloke. This journalist was older than most of the others, and he gave off an air of distance and indifference that for once didn’t seem forced. Dave was used to journalists pretending to be cool and unimpressed by him – although in his experience, most of them were either closet fans of his music, or else failed musicians with a major chip on their shoulder and every intention of running him down, journalistic integrity be damned.

But this man seemed honestly unaffected. He was dressed casually, in a sports jacket and gray trousers, and a tie loose at his neck. His hair was a little on the long and shaggy side, but it was neat and swept off his face, and the look suited him. He stood beside the sofa in the hotel sitting room, waiting for Dave, his hands behind his back and a neutral smile on his face.

Dave knew better than to be disarmed by his relaxed demeanor.

“Hello. Alan Wilder, Soundscape,” he said, holding out a hand as Dave walked over to him.

“Dave Gahan.” Wilder’s handshake was firm, and his palm was dry and warm. Dave gave him an easy grin and waved for him to sit.

Wilder chose one of the side chairs, and he immediately set a recorder on the coffee table and looked up at Dave with a lifted eyebrow. “Do you mind?”

“No problem,” Dave said. Daryl handed him a glass of water and set one in front of Wilder too, then took a seat in the second armchair.

The interview started out easy enough. They chatted for a few minutes about their shared experiences – Wilder had lived in London until recently, and they found they’d gone to some of the same clubs and bars in their early 20s, and now shared some of the same complaints about life in the States. Wilder moved on to all of the usual topics – Dave’s troubled youth in Basildon, his quick rise to fame in England and abroad. Dave knew he was getting the softball questions first, and he handled them with his usual charm and finesse – making the occasional self-deprecating joke, sliding in quick references to his more recent troubles, to show he wasn’t going to avoid the obvious.

He was on his game, but he sensed this journalist was just warming him up.

“It must be difficult, being back here in Los Angeles,” Wilder said. He sat back in his chair and twirled his pen around on his long fingers.

Dave shrugged. He knew exactly where this line of dialogue was going, but he could play it cool. 

“It’s good to catch up with some old mates,” he said. “Anyway, I can’t complain about getting out of New York in middle of summer. I think it’s, like, 90 percent humidity today. I forget how bloody beautiful it is out here.”

That was one big lie. Dave had no intention of looking up any of his old mates – they were bad news, all of them. And he bloody hated Los Angeles now. The entire city was like one bad flashback for him. But Daryl and Dan had insisted L.A. was the best place to launch the comeback tour – mostly for logistical reasons, but also because he always drew big crowds here.

“Eh, it’s always the same here. I miss having a proper winter,” Wilder said. “But I guess I just wonder if being back in L.A. is tough on the whole sobriety thing. Sort of like coming back to the scene of the crime and all. It’s been a few years, yeah? Are you still tempted?”

Dave forced himself to smile, easy and calm. In some ways it was his own damn fault that journalists still asked him these questions, even if it was none of their bloody business. He’d over-shared to the extreme when he’d been in the glow of post-rehab, finally free of the worst of the recovery process and enthusiastic about his new lease on life. But the journalists had taken advantage of his eagerness to talk, and he was still bitter about that.

“I suppose I’ll always be tempted,” Dave said. “Here and everywhere. But I’m three years sober now, after all. I’m happy to be back in Los Angeles and playing again. It’s a great place to kick off the tour.”

Wilder nodded, a little smirk playing around his mouth, like he wasn’t fooled a bit by Dave’s answers and he wanted Dave to know it. But he didn’t press Dave either.

“The new album feels different from your earlier work – it’s a little downbeat and dark,” Wilder said. “Was that a deliberate shift? Do you think your recent experiences influenced the mood of the album?”

This was a sensitive topic. Martin swore that none of the songs he’d written for this album were directly about Dave’s struggles, but Dave couldn’t help but feel like his problems had influenced the music. It made him feel self-conscious sometimes, like his worst faults were on display, and he was aware that made him a little defensive, too.

“Well, I wouldn’t say it was dark, exactly,” Dave hedged.

“It’s certainly more melancholic, yeah?” Wilder said. He flipped through some pages in his notebook. “’A vicious appetite visits me each night.’ ‘Whatever I’ve done, I’ve been staring down the barrel of a gun.’ Sounds pretty dark to me.”

“Sure, but not darker than usual. The album certainly has its melancholic moments, but I think overall it’s more hopeful than sad,” Dave said, suddenly wishing that Martin was there to back him up. “Anyway, I don’t think anyone’d ever accuse Martin of writing upbeat songs.”

Wilder laughed, but it was obviously forced. “Speaking of Martin Gore, what was it like working with him again, after the long time off?”

Dave had spent nearly two years in the worst of his haze of heroin addiction, and months in rehab. Their reunion had been brutally awkward. Martin had been quietly furious but, of course, completely unwilling to talk about it. It had taken a long time to win back Martin’s trust, and he wasn’t sure he’d ever have it fully again.

“It was a little strange at first, since we’d never taken off so much time between albums,” Dave said. “But Martin had put together a lot of really great songs and after a few days it was just like old times. We’re a good team.”

“Did it bother you that he’d recorded his own album while you were putting your life back together?” Wilder said. His eyes were on his lap, scribbling notes, so he missed the glare Dave shot him.

In fact, Dave had felt a stab of betrayal when he’d first hear about Mart’s album. But after all, it was only cover songs, and Dave knew he had no right to put Martin’s life on hold while he dealt with his own problems.

“Not at all,” Dave said, glad for his ability to throw his voice and sound a lot more at ease than he actually was. “I told him it was about bloody time he did his own thing. It’s a good album. I was happy for him.”

Dave didn’t add that he’d been relieved when the album hadn’t been a huge hit.

“Have you ever thought about breaking off on your own? Writing your own material?”

“Not really, no,” Dave said. He had a notebook full of songs in his flat back in Manhattan, but no way was he admitting that to Wilder – or anyone. “I’m bloody lucky to have Martin. He says he doesn’t write with me in mind, but I can’t help but feel a real connection to his lyrics, you know? Sometimes it’s scary how much his words mirror my own thoughts.”

“Still,” Wilder said, twirling that damn pen around some more, “it must be strange, not being a part of the creative process beyond just singing the songs. I mean, it’s your name on the album, yeah?”

Dave felt a sudden rush of anger and, he hated to admit, embarrassment. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Daryl sit up stiffly in the other armchair, obviously ready to break in and put an end to the interview.

“I’m more than just a bloody singer,” Dave said. He forced himself to take a deep breath and think a little before he went on. It wouldn’t do to lose his temper – he’d probably get written up as some sort of angry, bitter has-been. “Actually, I’ve always been very involved in recording the albums, from start to finish. I had very strong ideas on how the songs should sound, on this album and all the earlier ones.”

“Sure, but you must be fairly limited by your musical background. Or lack thereof,” Wilder said. He was leaning back easily in the armchair now, and smirking outright.

Dave met his smirk with a humorless smile of his own. “Well, it’s not like formal training guarantees a successful music career,” Dave said, and he felt a little surge of pleasure when Wilder’s smile faded – so he was right, he had another failed musician on his hands. “I guess I don’t feel like I need classical training to make good music.”

“Or any training,” Wilder said, but he waved off Dave before he could reply to that. “Sorry, I don’t mean to go off on a tangent. Obviously loads of pop singers don’t have any formal training.”

Dave narrowed his eyes at Wilder. “I’m not a pop singer.”

“Oh?” Wilder raised his eyebrows. “What would you call yourself, then?”

“Vocalist. Rock singer. Alternative rock singer, if you want to get specific.” Dave beamed at him. “Artist, if I’m feeling especially arrogant.”

“But your songs – or rather, Martin Gore’s songs – do have a certain pop sound to them,” Wilder said. Dave really wanted to punch that smirk off his face.

“It’s true that some of our songs are popular, yeah,” Dave said. “I can’t help it that we’ve managed to sell a lot of albums over the years and people seem to like the music.”

He was hoping the little dig would shut Wilder up, but Wilder just smiled a little and shook his head, and he jotted down a few more notes.

“So about this comeback tour,” Wilder said. “Are you nervous about going back on the road again? Isn’t that where all your problems started five years ago?”

Dave couldn’t help but feel a little relieved to turn the conversation back onto more familiar territory. Everyone asked him this question. He sat forward on the sofa and took a sip of water before answering.

“I’m looking forward to it, actually,” Dave said. “The last tour was crazy, yeah, and it’ll be good to get back to the basics, just get on the stage and sing. We have the best fans, and I think we’ll have some great crowds on this tour.”

Wilder nodded as he scrawled in his notebook. “You’re not worried about performing without the drugs?” he said, looking up and meeting Dave’s eyes. “I’m guessing it’s been a while since you were sober on stage.”

Dave just stared at him, not quite able to believe that someone could ask a recovering addict a question like that. Of course Dave was worried – sometimes he was fucking freaked out of his mind. He’d spent countless nights lying awake, wondering if this tour was a terrible idea, not sure how he was going to make it through the incredible stress of performing, without the drugs to hold him up.

Daryl was looking quickly between them, concern written all over his face. “Well, I think that’s time!” he said.

But Wilder was grinning again, like he knew he’d won, and he closed his notebook with a snap and tucked his pen into his shirt pocket. Dave was furious.

“Hold on,” Dave said, and Wilder glanced up at him, lifting an eyebrow. “I don’t know what you heard, but I never let the drugs affect a performance, for good or bad, even at my lowest. So no, I’m not worried about performing now. I have too much respect for my fans and for the music, and for the people I work with.”

Wilder smiled at him, and he looked so disbelieving, so bloody patronizing, that Dave wanted to throw something at him. Maybe that stupid recorder, still sitting on the table between them, preserving this conversation forever.

“Well, I’m sure your fans will be glad to hear it,” Wilder said.

He reached over to grab his recorder and turn it off, and then he stood and held out his hand again. Dave just stared at him for a moment, but it wasn’t like he could just blow the bloke off now. He shook Wilder’s hand, squeezing perhaps just a bit too tight.

“Good luck with the tour and all that,” Wilder said.

“Good luck with the story,” Dave said.

They stared each other down for a moment, until Daryl cleared his throat, and Wilder broke away and let go of Dave’s hand. Dave’s fingers were tingling, and he almost laughed when he caught Wilder rubbing his own hands together.

“You were wrong,” Dave said to Daryl, when Wilder had left the room. “That bastard was a bloody 10 if I ever met one.”

 

+++

 

Alan got into work early the next day, eager to write up the interview and be done with it so he could get back to a story he actually gave a shit about. Dave Gahan had been even more arrogant and obnoxiously full of himself than Alan had expected. He was obviously convinced he could charm his way through any interview, and Alan was more than a little tempted to take him down a peg or two in the story he was writing. But Alan knew he’d be fair, in the end. In truth, Gahan’s new album wasn’t bad – Alan had listened to it several times now, and he’d decided it was an interesting departure from Gahan’s early music. And Alan had to admit to a certain degree of grudging respect to the bloke for going on the road again, after everything he’d been through.

Still, he didn’t have to like the bastard to write a fair story.

“I’ll have it to you in 30 minutes,” Alan said, when he felt Fletch walk up behind him.

“Take your time,” he said, which was such a hugely unusual statement coming from the deadline-obsessed Fletch that Alan stopped typing and turned around to face him.

“What’s wrong?” Alan said. He didn’t like the way Fletch was rubbing his palms over his trousers and looking everywhere but at Alan.

“How’d you get along with Gahan?” Fletch said.

“Terribly,” Alan said. “He’s a self-absorbed twat and he thinks I’m a complete bastard.”

“Well, he’s right on that one,” Fletch said.

“Just spill it, boss. What’s going on?”

“They want Gahan for the cover.”

Alan sat back in his chair, stunned and horrified. A bloody cover story. That meant he’d be on the story for weeks, and he’d need a second, much more in-depth interview with Gahan.

“You’ve got to be fucking joking,” Alan said.

“And they want you to go on tour with him.”

Alan couldn’t help the sharp burst of laughter. “What, like a behind the scenes piece? So we can catch Gahan when he cracks and relapses?”

“Something like that, yeah,” Fletch said. He was nodding, but he didn’t look any happier about the assignment than Alan.

“Fuck, Fletch, you know I hate these bullshit gossip stories. I’m not writing some bloody hit piece just to sell copies. ” Alan closed his eyes, feeling a headache coming on already. “Anyway, Gahan’s people will never go for it.”

“Actually, they already have,” Fletch said.

“Why the fuck would they agree? Are they complete morons?”

Fletch shrugged. “Dan’s no idiot. Assuming Gahan can hold it together, a cover story would be great publicity.”

“Seems like a pretty big gamble,” Alan said. He sighed heavily. “I don’t imagine I have any say on this.”

“None at all,” Fletch said. “Gahan’s first gig is this weekend. We’ve got you tagging along for a week, at least. You’ll have full access – backstage, travel on the tour buses and planes, whatever you need.”

“Bloody fantastic,” Alan said. Fletch snorted at his sarcasm.

“Look at it this way,” Fletch said. “At least you’ll have me out of your hair for a week.”

“Andrew Fletcher or Dave Gahan – not sure which of you is worse, actually,” Alan said sincerely. “Just don’t blame me if I come back with my own heroin addiction.”

Fletch laughed and slapped Alan on the shoulder. “Wouldn’t that be a story! ‘Dave Gahan Hooked Me on Smack.’ Tell you what, we’ll get you a first-person if you can manage that one.”

Alan laughed with him, but in truth, he was truly dreading this assignment. A week on the road with a goddamn rock star. He had no idea how he was going to survive it with his sanity intact.


	2. Chapter 2

Dave was staring in the mirror trying to figure out what at the hell he was going to do with his hair when he heard a familiar knock at his dressing room door. Only one person ever knocked in that pattern – four sharp taps, and a jiggle of the doorknob – and Dave found himself smiling into the mirror. He’d missed that knock.

“It’s open!”

The door cracked open just far enough for Martin to sneak his head in. Dave didn’t miss the way Mart’s eyes swept over the room – probably looking for the candles and pillows and hookers and drug paraphernalia that would have been scattered about last time they were on tour. Dave felt his smile slip a little, and he looked away from the mirror, not particularly wanting to see his own reflection at that moment.

But a second later he heard the door shut and felt Mart walk up behind him and lay a hand on his shoulder. “All right?”

“Yeah, I’m good,” Dave said.

“Nervous?”

“A bit.” Dave caught Martin’s eyes in the mirror. “A lot.”

“Me too,” Mart said, and they shared anxious smiles.

Dave cleared his throat. “Well, I’d be nervous too if I was wearing those. . .” Dave paused, and he turned to get a better look at Martin. “Actually, what the hell are you wearing, anyway? Are those lederhosen?”

“Yeah. What do you think, too tight?” Mart spun around and tried to look at his own arse in the mirror.

“Too . . . lederhosen,” Dave said, and Mart laughed. “Are they supposed to sparkle like that?”

“Only when the spotlight’s on me, mate. Don’t worry, I won’t steal your show.”

“Hey, you can have all the spotlight you want,” Dave said sincerely. He turned back to the mirror again, and briefly met Martin’s eyes. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Martin smiled fondly at him, then tapped the back of his head. “What’re you doing about that hair? You look like a bloody vampire.”

Dave frowned and ran a hand over his slicked back hair. It was completely different than how he’d worn it for the last tour, when it had been long and shaggy and constantly falling into his eyes.

“I like it,” Dave said. “Makes me look sophisticated, yeah?”

“Bloody old, you mean,” Martin said, but he reached out and helped smooth a section where the hairs were still sticking up a bit. “At least it’ll keep out of your face. Do you want to clip it back with a barrette? Maybe something with a pretty bow, or a flower?”

“Sod off,” Dave said, batting away Mart’s hands. But they were both laughing now, and that felt good.

“So,” Martin said, and the shift in his tone made Dave look up. Martin was studying his fingernails, which were painted a glossy black. “Wilder wants to come in.”

“Now?” Dave said, incredulous.

Martin nodded. “Yeah. Said he wants to watch your pre-gig routine or some shit like that.”

“Probably just wants to poke around for all the drugs he knows I’ve got stashed in here,” Dave said with a sigh, completely aware that Martin had been doing exactly that, a few minutes ago.

“Look, I’ll just tell him tonight’s no good, what with it being the first gig and all. Don’t worry about it.”

Martin gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze and headed back to the door, and Dave sighed again. There was no point in putting this off. He was going to be stuck with the bastard for a week – he might as well give him a good story and make Dan happy with some positive publicity for once. Dave was a professional. He needed to behave like one.

“Send him in, Mart.”

Martin stopped with a hand on the doorknob. “You sure?”

“No,” Dave said. “But do it anyway.”

Wilder knocked barely a minute later, which meant he’d probably been lingering outside Dave’s door, ready to pounce. Dave made him wait long enough that Wilder knocked again, and finally he stood up and opened the door for him.

They just stared at each other for a long, awkward moment – it was the first time Dave had seen him since their less than friendly interview – until Wilder glanced away, looking over Dave’s shoulder. Dave felt a small rush of satisfaction and stepped back to let Wilder in.

“Thanks,” Wilder said, nodding as he looked all around the room. “I like what you’ve done with the place.”

“Do you want to get some photos?” Dave said. “I can show you where I’m not keeping the drugs, and where I won’t be smoking or snorting or shooting up anything.”

“No, I’m good. Maybe next time, though.”

Dave rolled his eyes and went back to his dressing table, where he picked up the cup of tea he’d left to cool and took a long drink. He winced at the bitter flavor, but the coach he’d hired to help him improve his voice swore that this tea would relax his vocal cords. At the very least, he had to admit that it soothed his nerves, just a little.

“I have to run through my warm-up,” Dave said. “So I won’t be much good for an interview right now.”

Wilder waved him off and sat on the couch against the opposite wall. “No worries. I’m just here to observe and all.”

“So I’m to pretend you’re not even in the room, right?”

“Exactly,” Wilder said, with that same smug grin on his face that had pissed Dave off when they’d first met.

Dave finished his tea, and then he just stood there, in front of his dressing table. He suddenly felt extremely self-conscious doing his vocal exercises in front of Wilder. He only ever did them in front of his vocal coach, and sometimes Martin, but neither of them counted as much of an audience. Wilder was just sitting there watching him, and it made Dave very nervous, even as he realized how ridiculous that was, considering he’d be on a stage in front of thousands of fans in less than an hour. Then again, those were fans – Wilder was most definitely not.

He closed his eyes and cleared his throat, and forced himself to get started. He imagined it was Mart sitting there, not Wilder. Mart, just reading a book or writing in the little notepad he carried everywhere, not paying a bit of attention to Dave. It helped, and after a few minutes Dave opened his eyes, and he paced around the room as he always did when he was warming up his voice.

As he worked his way into the second set of exercises, Dave allowed himself to glance over at Wilder, who was still looking at him – not staring, exactly, because there was no intensity to his gaze. He was just watching Dave, a funny, thoughtful little smile on his lips. Wilder looked relaxed on the sofa, one leg crossed over the other, an arm curled over the back of the cushions. He caught Dave’s eyes, nodded a little at him, and glanced away, looking about the room now.

It seemed Wilder had dressed for the occasion, because he’d lost the rumpled trousers and button-down work shirt, and was now wearing dark-wash jeans and a black leather jacket that was surprisingly sleek and sophisticated. Dave thought he might have even trimmed his hair, or at least he’d put more effort into styling it, because it was swept back from his face now, and for the first time Dave noticed the smart line of Wilder’s nose and the fine arch of his lips. He was a pretty good-looking bloke, actually. The way he was sitting, the calm, soft look on his face, made him seem innocent and easy-going, maybe even a little bored, but there was nothing soft about his eyes, which were focused and sharp.

Dave paced away from Wilder, turning his back to him. He thought he could feel Wilder’s eyes on him again, and it made his skin feel warm. He rubbed at the back of his neck, feeling oddly exposed and vulnerable.

“You do this before every gig now?” Wilder said, as Dave hit a pause in his exercises.

Dave turned to face him and nodded.

“Does it help?”

Dave shrugged, then nodded again.

“Oh, right, this is the first gig,” Wilder said. “Guess it’s too soon to tell.”

He seemed to study Dave for a long moment, like he was trying to make up his mind about something. Dave started to sing again, and he paced some more and pretended to ignore Wilder. Finally Wilder uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs.

“Look, I feel like I need to clear something up with you,” Wilder said.

Dave arched an eyebrow, and he stopped singing.

“I’m not out to get you. I’m not that kind of journalist. I won’t lie – if I find out you’re using again, I’ll write it. But if I don’t-” Wilder shrugged. “Well, I’m sure you’ll do something worth writing about. You still like hookers, yeah?”

Dave laughed. He couldn’t help himself. “But only the high-class prostitutes now.”

“Of course,” Wilder said, and he grinned – it was a much different smile than Dave had seen before, and it made his eyes light up. “Since you’re clean and all.”

“Exactly. Now shut up, and don’t interrupt me again or I’ll get Mart to haul you off.”

“Mart? Curly blond bloke in the sparkly lederhosen? About this tall?” Wilder held a hand up waist-high. “Sure, you call him in here.”

Dave glared at him, but he suspected the intensity was lost when he felt his lips twitching into a smile. He waggled a finger at Wilder, and then he turned his back and resumed his vocal exercises. Wilder didn’t interrupt again, but Dave could still feel him watching – and he found he didn’t really mind the warm, tingly sensation on the back of his neck.

 

+++

 

The first two gigs in Los Angeles were huge successes – sell-out crowds, both nights, and he swore he could feel the affection and the faith and approval rolling off the audiences in waves, making his heart swell with something like pride. Dave couldn’t believe he’d forgotten that rush he got from performing. It wasn’t dissimilar from being high, except it was a lot easier coming down.

Now Dave sat in the middle of the private plane, tucked into a leather chair with a pillow stuffed under his head, as they made their way north to San Francisco. Mart was across from him, working some sort of puzzle from the back page of a newspaper. Dave could hear a low hum of conversation from somewhere behind them in the back of the plane, and the rumble of the engines was making him sleepy. Well, that and two long nights of parties – Dave hadn’t spent so much time in clubs, surrounded by people and laughing and dancing, since before he’d entered rehab. He’d learned that it was a lot more difficult to last until dawn when there were no drugs or alcohol involved, but he wouldn’t miss the hangovers.

He closed his eyes and was just starting to drift off when he heard someone drop heavily in the seat next to his. Dave opened one eye, frowned, and closed it again.

“Don’t mind me,” Wilder said. “I just wanted to ask Mr. Gore here a few questions.”

“Does Mr. Gore get any say in this?” Martin asked dryly.

“Nope,” Wilder said. “So, what d’you think, how’d the first two shows turn out?”

“Fine. Good audiences,” Martin said. Dave tried not to snicker. Martin was a brilliant songwriter, but he could be remarkably tight-lipped in casual conversation – never mind chatting with a journalist.

Wilder laughed, and said, “Please, slow down, let me get everything down.” Dave heard a pen scribbling on paper.

But Wilder kept poking at Martin – gently, asking him questions in a way that made it sound like he was truly interested and not just looking for sound bites or a good story. Dave figured it was all an act – it had to be part of Wilder’s job to make even people like Martin feel at ease in an interview. Almost against his will, Dave found himself paying attention to their conversation, interested in what Martin was saying. Wilder was asking questions Dave had wondered about himself, but also bringing up topics he’d never considered.

“When Dave told you he wanted to make another album, after rehab, what did you think?” Wilder said.

“I thought it was a terrible idea,” Mart said.

“Why’s that?”

“Because I thought he needed to get his life back together first,” Mart said. He paused. “And I wasn’t sure I wanted to work with him again.”

Dave was stunned. He forced himself to stay very still, pretending to be asleep. He wondered if Martin really believed he was asleep – or if he wanted Dave to hear what he was saying.

“Why wouldn’t you want to work with him again?” Wilder said quietly.

“I wasn’t sure I could trust him again. Or whether I should trust him, really.”

“And do you trust him now?” Wilder said.

The silence was unbearable, and Dave couldn’t help but crack an eye open. Mart was looking right at him, and he smiled, just barely. “Yeah,” he said. “I do.”

“And you think that’s smart, to trust him, after everything?”

Martin laughed and his eyes lit up in that way that made him look very young and happy. Dave couldn’t help but smile with him.

“It’s probably never smart to trust Dave Gahan,” Martin said. “But yeah. He says he’s clean now, and I believe him. He’s got his head on straight. He’s keeping his life together.”

“And what about you, Gahan?” Wilder said. He smirked when he looked over at Dave, clearly not at all surprised to see him awake.

“What about me?” Dave said. He sat up and cracked his neck. “Do I trust Mart? Not even as far as I can throw him.”

All three of them laughed, but then Wilder said, “No, I mean, do you trust yourself?”

Dave looked at Wilder, and the strangest thought flashed through his head: I trust you.

“Dave? Mr. Gahan?”

“Yeah,” Dave said. He frowned and stared at his hands, avoiding Wilder’s eyes. “Yes. I trust myself. I’ve got to, right?”

Wilder wrote that down in his notebook, and Dave watched his hands. He had long fingers – pianist’s fingers, thin and strong. Dave couldn’t imagine why in the world he trusted this bloke. He was a bastard, and a journalist, and he had a stupid smug grin and daft hair and he obviously had no respect for musicians in general, and Dave in particular.

Except Dave realized that wasn’t quite fair. Wilder had been mostly quiet the past two days, content to just stand in the background and watch Dave and Mart and their crew at work. He’d gone out with them both nights, and he’d even brought Dave a club soda after the second gig, and congratulated him on a good start to the tour.

And just now – just in these past 20 minutes – Dave had learned more about Martin, and where they now stood, than he had in the previous three years. And all because Wilder had been willing to ask the questions that scared Dave the most.

Wilder glanced at his watch and pushed out of his seat. “I should let you two get some rest. You’re meeting with another batch of bastards like me first thing in San Francisco, yeah?”

“Fuck,” Dave said. He’d forgotten that Daryl had lined up more interviews for the afternoon.

Wilder grinned at him. “Bet you’ll appreciate my charm and witty repartee once you’re done with those tossers.”

“Not bloody likely,” Dave said, and he shoved his pillow under his head again and closed his eyes.

But Dave thought Wilder was probably right.

 

+++

 

Alan tilted his face toward the sun as he walked out into the main floor of the amphitheater. He’d learned quickly that one of the downsides to tagging along on a major rock tour was the lack of sunlight. He spent his days sleeping for the most part, or else backstage with Gahan or Gore or one of the handful of roadies he’d befriended. Only a couple of days in and he was starting to feel like a vampire.

He took a seat in the front row and pulled out his notebook. Roadies were fussing about on stage, moving equipment and plugging in amps and keyboards. Gahan and Gore stood center stage at a microphone stand, looking at a piece of paper in Gore’s hand and having what looked like a spirited discussion about something or other. Alan reminded himself to ask one of them about it later – probably Gore, who’d been reluctantly helpful from the start, and now seemed to be warming up to him a little.

Someone yelled out that they were ready, and Gore stepped aside, leaving Gahan alone at the mic. Gahan grinned and did a jerky little dance that looked like some kind of drunk Scottish jig, and Alan laughed to himself. He found that he liked watching Gahan on stage – whether he was in front of a full audience, or now, playful and unguarded. Gahan was a performer down to his bones. He liked the attention, obviously – craved it, like every other self-centered rock star Alan had met – but it was more than that. Gahan wanted to make people happy.

He started in on the opening song, his voice soft and relaxed for the soundcheck – it was nice, actually. Gahan undoubtedly had a good, strong voice, and he knew how to belt out a song to a crowd of thousands and make girls scream and cry for him, but Alan was surprised at how powerful he sounded now, even reigning himself in. It gave the song a subtle melancholy that Alan appreciated.

Gahan looked more at ease than Alan had ever seen him, wearing cutoff jeans and a white tanktop, nodding his head easily along with the beat of the music. He glanced up at the start of the chorus and spotted Alan, and he waved a little, which was surprising. Alan nodded back at him, and Gahan smiled. It was hard to tell behind the sunglasses Gahan was wearing, but it seemed like he was looking straight at Alan – and Alan got the impression that Gahan was singing to him, for him. He didn’t know if it was just that Gahan couldn’t resist an audience, or if Gahan was actually being friendly, or trying to prove a point. Either way, it was hypnotic, and Alan couldn’t look away. He watched Gahan’s every move – the way his hips swung in time with the music, how he held on to the mic with both hands, the little smile that danced on his lips in between the words.

When the song was over, Gore came up and clapped him on the back and they walked off to the side, so a technician could mess around with the mic. Gahan said something in Gore’s ear, and then he hopped off the stage and walked over to Alan, and sat beside him.

“What’d you think?”

Alan waggled a hand. “The levels aren’t quite right, and you’ve got a little distortion on the left.”

Gahan stared at him, and Alan smirked back at him. “Arsehole,” Gahan said.

“Hey, you asked!” Alan laughed and slapped Gahan’s knee with his notebook. “Fine, all right, that was pretty great.”

“Yeah?”

Alan was surprised by the frank pride on Gahan’s face – like Alan’s opinion really mattered.

“Yeah,” Alan said. He nodded toward the stage. “You should think about doing a pared down version live. Maybe slow it down a bit, lose some of the horns.”

Gahan was gaping at Alan, open-mouthed and confused. Alan realized he’d probably just overstepped his boundaries, big-time, and he could have kicked himself.

“Sorry,” he said quickly. “None of my business.”

Gahan shook his head, and he said, “No, it’s a good idea. I’ll think about it.”

“Oh. All right. Good, then.”

One of the technicians called Gahan over, and he stood up and headed back to the stage. But he’d only gone a couple of steps when he turned back to Alan, and gave him an odd little smile – like he was suddenly feeling shy.

“Thanks,” Gahan said. He opened his mouth like he wanted to say something more, maybe explain what he was thanking Alan for, but he just nodded instead, and then he was jogging back to the stage.

Alan opened his notebook and took out a pen, thinking he should take some notes on what had just happened – both Gahan’s performance during the soundcheck, and the strange conversation they’d just had. But he just sucked on the end of his pen, worrying the cap between his teeth, and as Gahan began to sing again, he closed his notebook and stuffed it back in his pocket. And he sat back in his seat and listened.

 

+++

 

They had a night off after Sacramento, so Alan invited Gahan and Gore to dinner, presumably for a proper sit-down interview. He was fussing with his hair when his mobile rang, and he saw it was Fletch. Alan seriously considered ignoring him, but aside from a few emails they hadn’t spoken since Alan had joined the tour, so he sighed and answered it.

“Where’ve you been?” Fletch said. “I was starting to think you’d gone dark side on me.”

“Yeah, well, they needed a bass player and the pay’s pretty good,” Alan said. “But don’t worry, I won’t let a little bribery get in the way of a good honest story.”

Fletch chuckled, and then he was serious again. “How’s the story? Has Gahan relapsed yet?”

Alan felt a rush of annoyance, but he pushed it aside. Fletch was just taking the piss anyway. “No, but I’ll do a few lines in front of him tonight and see if that breaks him.”

“That’s a good lad,” Fletch said. “Just expense the cocaine.”

“Of course.” Alan switched his phone to the other ear, and he sat down on his bed. “Honestly, boss, he’s clean. But I think I’ve got a good story anyway.”

“Redemption doesn’t sell magazines, Al,” Fletch said.

“I know, but a good story sells magazines, and I’ve got one,” Alan said. He paused, and he thought carefully about what he wanted to say. “Gahan’s . . . unusual. He comes across as this cocky bastard, just like the rest of them, but he’s different. It’s like he believes in what he’s doing, like he really thinks it’s important.”

Fletch snorted. “What, like his heart’s in the bloody music? C’mon, Al. You’re starting to sound like a 13-year-old girl.”

Alan sighed. Fletch had a point. “Just trust me, yeah? I’ve never let you down before.”

“What about that Britney Spears column?” Fletch said.

“Fine, I’ve only ever let you down once before.”

Fletch was quiet for a moment, but Alan could hear him typing in the background. “All right,” he finally said. “It still sounds like a load of crap to me, but if anyone can make a compelling story out of Gahan, I suppose it’s you.”

“Your faith is staggering, boss,” Alan said.

“They don’t pay me to have faith,” Fletch said. “I’ll see you on Monday.”

The phone clicked, and Alan shook his head and turned off his mobile. He glanced at the bedside clock and swore – he should’ve been in the lobby five minutes ago. Alan stuffed his phone in his pocket and headed for the door, checking his hair one more time in the mirror. It was still sticking up oddly on one side and he tried to pat it down, and he was just about to break into the gel again when it dawned on him that he was spending more time on his hair now than he had for his last date.

“Bloody hell,” Alan said to his reflection. “You really are a 13-year-old girl.”

He refused to fuss with his clothes and his hair as he took the lift down to the lobby, and he definitely didn’t check his breath in his hand or seriously consider going back to his room to splash on more cologne. But when he saw Gahan in the lobby, he couldn’t keep the grin off his face, no matter how hard he tried.

Gahan’s answering smile didn’t help.


	3. Chapter 3

Dave dropped onto the sofa with a groan and let his head fall back on the cushions. The ceiling swam and he blinked a few times and rubbed a hand over his eyes. When his vision had cleared he opened his water bottle and drank greedily from it – his vocal coach wouldn’t approve of the cold water, but it felt bloody good. When he’d had a few good swallows, he ran the plastic bottle, dripping with cool condensation, along the sides of his neck and over his cheeks.

“It was bloody hot out there tonight.” Dave plucked at his sweat-soaked tank top. “Thought I was going to pass out there for a moment.”

“You’re talking about when I sang ‘Home’ and half the audience was fainting?”

Dave caught Martin’s teasing glance in the mirror. “Yeah, you know how I get all mushy when you go romantic like that.”

Mart laughed and turned on the faucet in their shared dressing room to splash some water on his face. Dave honestly couldn’t remember the last time they’d shared, but there was a lot of renovation going on at the venue, and limited plumbing. Anyway, he didn’t mind. He was used to disappearing on his own after a gig, to come down from the adrenalin rush privately – and back in the day, to shoot up and drink up – but tonight, for whatever reason, it felt good to have some company.

“Seriously, Mart, you were great on ‘Home.’ And ‘Judas.’ It was a good set.”

Martin was wiping his face with a towel, and he started drying his hair with it instead. “Thanks. You sounded pretty good yourself, mate. What was that you did with ‘Barrel of a Gun’?”

“Just took it down a bit, made it a little softer, I s’pose.”

“I liked it. Suits the song.”

“Yeah?” Mart nodded. Dave sat up and leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs. “Actually, it was Alan’s idea.”

“Alan?”

“Wilder, yeah,” Dave said, chagrined to feel the sides of his face heat up a little. He ducked his head and grabbed a towel for himself off of the table in front of him. “Anyway, he said something to me after the soundcheck a few days ago. Said he liked the quiet version I’d done then, you know, watching my voice and all.”

“Well, he’s got a good ear, then,” Mart said.

Mart stopped drying his hair, a thoughtful look on his face. He looked a bit ridiculous with rings of eyeliner still smudged under his eyes, and a towel draped over his damp hair like a hood. Dave chuckled to himself and used his own towel to wipe at his face and neck. He needed a shower – it really had been bloody hot on stage.

“You know,” Mart said, “it’s funny about this Wilder bloke.”

“Yeah? What’s funny?”

Mart shook his head. “It’s just, he seems to know a lot about music. I mean, like a musician would, not a journalist. He’s made a few comments to me too.”

“So,” Dave said. “Like I said before, he’s probably just some failed musician, like all the rest of them. Thinks he can do our job better than us and all that.”

Dave didn’t really buy that – Wilder had hardly been gloating when he’d made his suggestion to Dave about changing up the song. But he didn’t think it particularly strange that Wilder had a decent ear for music. He was a music journalist, after all.

Mart seemed to agree, because he was shaking his head and he’d gone back to scrubbing at the makeup on his face.

“I’m sure it’s coincidence,” Mart said, “but there used to be this bloke Wilder who wrote pop songs, maybe 10 or 15 years ago.”

Dave laughed. “Pop songs? You think Wilder was in a pop band?”

“Not in a band. Don’t think he ever performed, even,” Mart said. “He was just a writer, but a pretty good one, actually. Had a few good hits. I think he might’ve even been nominated for a Grammy.”

Dave grunted in disgust. Anyone could get nominated for a Grammy these days. “Who’d he write for?”

“Band of Boys. The Heartstoppers. Lavender Lily.”

“Lavender fucking Lily?” Dave fell back into the couch and laughed again. “Wilder would never be caught dead writing for those pop tossers. Anyway, there must be millions of Wilders out there.”

“Yeah, but how many A. C. Wilders?”

“What do you mean?”

“This pop writer, he went by the name A. C. Wilder,” Mart said.

“Okay, and our Wilder’s named Alan,” Dave said. “But c’mon, Mart. You don’t really think it’s the same guy.”

Mart shrugged. “Probably not. But how many Wilders are music journalists, with the byline ‘Alan C. Wilder’?”

Dave gaped at Martin for a long moment, his mouth hanging open and suddenly dry. “No shit.”

“No shit,” Martin said. He turned back to the mirror and started the faucet again, filling his hands with water. “I’m sure it’s just a coincidence, though.” Martin splashed his face, and then dunked his whole head in the stream of water.

“Yeah,” Dave said to himself. “I’m sure it is.”

Dave shook his head, trying to imagine a young Alan Wilder, hanging out with the likes of a boy band called The Heartstoppers, or writing hits for Lavender Lily, who’d dressed head to toe in purple and even dyed her hair lavender and worn colored contact lenses. She’d spawned a thankfully brief but worldwide purple fashion movement among preteen girls.

Now all Dave could think about was Wilder with purple hair.

“How do you know so much about this bloke anyway?” Dave said, trying, and failing, to shake loose the image of Wilder. “Admit it – you were a closet Lavender Lily fan.”

“Actually, Band of Boys was more my thing,” Mart said. He turned to face Dave, water dripping off his nose and chin. “Had a poster of Blaise Baron on my bedroom wall and everything.”

“Wasn’t he the one with the afro and the nipple piercings?”

“Oh yeah,” Mart said, a dreamy look on his face now. “That was Blaise.”

“It’s all starting to make sense now,” Dave said. He laughed when Mart’s wet towel hit him in the face.

 

+++

 

Alan woke to rain in Portland, which was a welcome relief after the blazing heat of Northern California. It took him a few bleary seconds to realize that his mobile was ringing. Or rather, buzzing. He glanced over and saw it vibrating on the bedside table and groaned when he saw the caller ID. He answered the phone, but before he could even say a proper “good morning” Fletch was on him.

“Had the strangest message on my voicemail this morning,” Fletch said, skipping the pleasantries. “Know what it said?”

“Er.” Alan sat up in the hotel bed and scratched at his scalp.

“No, good guess, though.” Alan heard the distinctive creak from Fletch’s tired old office chair. “The message said that my reporter – the bloke who’s writing a cover story for the end of the month, mind – is spending another week on the road. Says he needs more time to crack the story or some such bullshit like that.”

“Look, boss-”

“Al,” Fletch said, “what’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Alan said quickly.

“Nothing? Nothing? Not what I want to hear, Wilder.”

“It’s a good story, I promise,” Alan said. “It’s just, it’s taken a while for Gahan to open up with me. He doesn’t trust journalists, you know? Been burned a few times. But I think he likes me now, so I just need a few more days.”

“He likes you? Is he mental?”

Alan laughed, and was relieved to hear Fletch do the same.

“All right, stay a few more days,” Fletch said. “But if I think you’re turning into the next Patty Hearst I’m sending Kessler up there to kidnap you back.”

“Aww, boss, I didn’t know you cared so much.”

“Damn straight, I care. You know how much this gig of yours is costing the paper?”

Fletch had obviously meant it as a joke, but Alan got the underlying truth to the statement – this was a pretty damn expensive assignment, and Alan knew he’d be expected to produce a compelling cover story worth the price tag.

“Speaking of costs, I should go grab some breakfast with the band,” Alan said.

They exchanged quick goodbyes, but Alan didn’t get up right away. He sat for a long time in his bed, passing the mobile back and forth between his hands.

He’d called Fletch the day before to leave a message about his plans to stay longer – it’d been a Sunday, and he’d called knowing full well that Fletch wouldn’t be there. He wasn’t sure why he’d been avoiding Fletch – there was nothing wrong with asking for more time on a story, and he really did need it in this case. It was true that Gahan had only recently started to seem comfortable with him. If it was also true that Alan was starting to become more comfortable too, well, that wasn’t unexpected. It wasn’t as though they were becoming friends – just friendly.

Alan took a quick shower and packed his suitcase and was in the lobby only an hour later. He left his luggage with the concierge and went looking for Gahan and Martin, probably in the hotel restaurant, assuming they were even up yet. Alan glanced at his watch – they still had another half hour before they left for the plane.

Alan was at the entrance to the restaurant, peering around looking for people he knew, when he heard Gahan’s familiar voice behind him. Alan turned and spotted him, leaning against a wall, partly obscured by a tree in a planter. He was talking on a mobile, although Alan couldn’t make out his face through the leaves.

“I know. I miss you too,” Gahan said. He was quiet, obviously listening to whoever was on the other end. Then he ran a hand over his hair and said, “I don’t know, Jack. We’ll talk to your mum about it, okay?”

Alan knew he should walk away, give Gahan some privacy while he was talking to his son. But he found he couldn’t move, even when Gahan started talking again, his voice rough and unsteady.

“Did you get your birthday present?” Gahan paused, and then he laughed a little. “Good, just be careful, okay? Wear your helmet. I’m sorry I couldn’t be there for your party.”

Gahan listened some more, and then he said, “Love you, too,” and he turned off the phone.

For a long time he just stood there with his head bowed, and Alan couldn’t look away. He felt like an arsehole, watching Gahan through that stupid potted tree. But he’d never seen this side of Gahan – heartbroken and beaten down. Regretful. Gahan had talked about these feelings with Alan, once or twice, and it wasn’t as though Alan had disbelieved him. But it was entirely different to see Gahan’s suffering with his own eyes. And wasn’t that why he’d wanted to stay on the tour after all? To capture Gahan – the good and the bad, the devil driven to throw his life away, and the angel trying so hard to save himself? The rock star and the broken-hearted father?

But Alan didn’t take out his notebook. He knew he’d never use this in his story. He’d told Gahan, when he’d joined the tour, that nothing would be “off the record.” That whatever Gahan said or did in front of him was fair material, and Gahan had agreed, reluctantly. But what Alan hadn’t said, not in so many words, was that nothing was that simple. He wouldn’t hurt Gahan – not for a story, even a fucking cover story – and he certainly wouldn’t hurt Gahan’s kid.

Alan saw Gahan push away from the wall. He swept a hand over his eyes, and Alan jerked and quickly walked a few paces away, stepping up to the restaurant maitre d’.

“Table for one?” the man said.

“Two, actually.” Alan turned to see Gahan directly behind him, holding up two fingers. He caught Alan’s eye. “Mind if I join you?”

Gahan’s eyes were a little red, but otherwise he looked the same as always. Alan searched his face for a moment – looking for some suspicion, like Gahan knew Alan had been spying. But Gahan just lifted an enquiring eyebrow.

“All right?”

“Yeah,” Alan said. He turned back to the maitre d’. “Table for two, please.”

 

+++

 

Less than 12 hours into his first visit to Salt Lake City and Alan had already added it to his long list of places to never visit again.

“How can there not be a single bloody place to eat?” Alan said, checking his watch for the third time in five minutes. “It’s not even 11!”

“It’s the Mormons, mate,” Gahan said, swinging an arm around Alan’s shoulders. That was new, and Alan felt a delicious shiver run down his spine. Still, he couldn’t help taking a quick sniff to make sure Gahan didn’t reek of alcohol – he smelled nothing other than Gahan’s cologne and the leather of his jacket.

The gig had started and ended a little earlier than usual, and when Alan had made some offhand comment backstage about craving a plate of salty chips, Gahan had sprung up from the couch, where he’d been nursing a sparkling water and signing a few autographs.

“Chips!” Gahan had said. “That’s the best fucking idea I’ve heard all week.”

Alan had felt an odd flush of pride at the moment, but now it was seeming to be an impossible dream.

“It’s like the whole bloody city shuts down,” Martin said. They had the windows in the back of the town car rolled down, and he was staring wide-eyed at the very dark, very obviously closed buildings in downtown Salt Lake City.

They finally gave up and ended up back at the hotel, where at least the bar was open. Alan had noticed that Gahan and Martin and their crew tended to avoid bars. In fact, after the first two nights on tour, Gahan hadn’t joined them at the clubs or various after parties. He usually hid out in his dressing room after a gig, made a brief appearance with the fans who’d managed to get backstage, and then disappeared back to the hotel. What he did with those hours after a gig was one of the mysteries Alan hoped to figure out with these extra few days on the road. But tonight was the first time Gahan had made himself available.

The bar was mostly empty, save the bartender herself and one patron – a sad looking businessman in a rumpled suit. Gahan ordered a sparkling water with lemon and the “largest, saltiest plate of chips you can find,” and then he excused himself and left the bar, dialing his mobile as he walked out.

Alan turned to Martin, who answered Alan’s question before he could even ask it. “Calling his sponsor. He does it every night after a gig.”

“His sponsor?”

“AA,” Martin said. The bartender set their drinks on the table and gave Martin an exaggerated wink. He smiled shyly in return, then watched her arse as she walked away.

“Gahan calls his AA sponsor every night?”

Martin tore his gaze away from the bartender. “Or NA. I can never remember which. You didn’t know?”

“No. He mostly keeps to himself afterwards, doesn’t he?” Alan took a sip of his drink and winced. “The bartender definitely wants to take one of us home. My drink’s got enough vodka to knock out a bear.”

“She’s all yours, mate,” Martin said with a laugh.

“That’s generous of you.”

“Well, plenty where she comes from, yeah?”

“Cheers to that,” Alan said, and they clinked glasses.

Gahan came back soon enough, looking chipper and relaxed. Alan wondered what he talked to his sponsor about, and how he could ask Gahan about it. Straightforward was usually the best option, he’d learned over the years. And Martin hadn’t acted like it was any big secret.

“What’s your sponsor have to say about you hanging out in a bar tonight?” Alan said, sitting back in his chair and forcing his voice to sound casual and light.

Gahan shrugged. “It’s Salt Lake City. Not much trouble I can get up to here, I reckon.”

“The bartender’d like to have a say about that,” Martin said.

Alan and Dave both glanced over, and true enough, she was leaning over the bar, her substantial breasts pushed together in her not-so-substantial sleeveless top. When she saw them looking her way, she picked up a lime wedge and sucked on it, then ran her tongue over the pulp.

“Don’t think she’s Mormon,” Gahan said faintly. “Think I might have to give my sponsor another call tonight after all.”

Alan shook away something that felt a lot like jealousy, and set his glass on the table with a little more force than necessary. “So really,” he said, waiting until Gahan had turned back to him. “What do you talk to him about? Who’s this sponsor bloke, anyway?”

Gahan made a show of glancing around the table, and then looking underneath it. “Don’t see your recorder, mate. Sure you don’t want to get this all down in your notes?”

“Shut it,” Alan said, and he pointed a finger at his head. “I’ve got a brilliant memory. C’mon now, spill for your old friend Alan.”

Gahan laughed and took a sip of his drink. “Not much to spill, actually. He’s just some bloke I met at a meeting. I tell him if I’m feeling tempted, if anything’s been getting me down. It’s not all bad. Tonight I was just checking in, telling him I felt pretty great, actually.”

Gahan stopped himself then, and looked down at his hands. His knee was bouncing up and down and Alan had the sense he was regretting something he’d said, but Alan couldn’t imagine what.

“Look,” Gahan said finally, still staring at his hands, “I’m not gonna tell you what to write in your story. But all that shit about the addiction and rehab, it’s in the past, yeah? It’s always gonna be a part of me, but it’s not my life now.”

“I know,” Alan said, and was a little surprised at how much he meant it. “I was telling the truth, you know. When I said I wasn’t planning to take you down.”

“Yeah,” Gahan said. He looked up at Alan then, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “I believe you.”

It was a strange moment – awkward, but somehow charged, and Alan found himself smiling too, and unable to look away. His cheeks felt warm and flushed, and he had the sudden, unexpected urge to take Gahan’s hand – to hold his fingers, which were now tapping on his glass of water.

“That’s good,” Alan said, his voice sounding like it was far away, coming from someone else.

And then there was music – a loud piano, and Martin’s voice climbing up over the melody being bashed out on the out-of-tune keyboard. The piano was an old upright in the far corner of the bar, and sure enough, Martin was bent over the keys, his distinctive blond curls bouncing up and down as he played. Alan hadn’t even realized Martin had left the table.

“Oh, you’re in for a treat tonight, Wilder,” Gahan said, and he got up from the table. He walked up behind Alan and pulled out his chair, forcing Alan to stand. “C’mon, before Mart starts playing shit from his Wham collection.”

In fact, Martin led them in a very enthusiastic rendition of “Jitterbug,” which sounded surprisingly good on piano. Alan and Gahan sang along loudly and mostly off-key, and they grinned and slung their arms around each other. After three or four songs Alan couldn’t help himself, and he sat down next to Martin and started hammering out the melody to some Spandau Ballet crap, and for a long time the three of them sang through a long set of ‘80s classics.

They were all breathless and laughing by the time Alan had wrapped up a clunky version of “Save a Prayer,” and it was only when he paused to order another drink from the bartender that Alan realized they’d drawn a small group of fans. When Alan wandered back to the piano with his fresh drink, a girl walked up to him, practically shaking from head to toe, and thrust a cocktail napkin and a pen at him.

“Can I have your autograph?” she said, so quietly he was about to ask her to repeat herself. He’d never been asked for an autograph before, and suddenly he felt very uncomfortable – surely he’d be breaching some kind of journalist ethic by pretending to be one of the band. He’d probably screwed up badly already, just by horsing around with them in the bar.

But the poor girl looked like she might actually die from embarrassment just from standing so close to him, and Alan wasn’t a terrible person, after all. So he took the napkin and signed his name – careful to make it completely illegible – and handed it back to her with a smile. She grinned and practically ran away, but a second later the other girls were there too, and he signed his name half a dozen more times. When he glanced up after the last one had left, he caught Gahan’s eye.

“Welcome to our world,” Gahan said, watching the now-giggling girls parading out of the bar, exchanging napkins to see who’d collected the best autographs. “All the 15-year-old girls you could ever want.”

“You’re living the dream, man,” Alan said. “Now I know why you wanted to do the whole comeback thing.”

“Yeah,” Gahan said. He had that soft smile on his face now – the one that made Alan feel like he couldn’t quite catch his breath. He turned to Alan, and slung an arm over his shoulder again. “Yeah. It’s pretty fucking cool, isn’t it?”

 

+++

 

Dave wasn’t a particular nosy bloke by nature. If he wanted information, he wasn’t shy about it – he just asked for it, and what people weren’t willing to tell him, he pretty much forgot about. Anyway, people didn’t hold back from him much. Dave knew his smile was his ticket, and when that failed, he had certain other charms he could rely on.

But something made him not want to ask Wilder outright about his past – whether he’d written pop songs, or been in a band, or what he’d done before selling out and becoming a journalist. Wilder was a cagey bloke, no doubt about it – in all the time they’d spent together, he hadn’t shared a single personal thing about himself. It was probably as much to do with the fact that he was assigned to Dave – his job was to ask questions, not answer them. Still, Dave got the feeling that Wilder wouldn’t be too eager to share if the tables were turned.

But after watching the way Wilder played and sang at the Salt Lake City bar, Dave couldn’t resist doing a little sleuthing. He borrowed Daryl’s laptop that same night and got on the Internet, and he downloaded a few songs written by A. C. Wilder. Several of them were atrocious, but Dave noticed they all had a pretty good beat to them – a solid, deep bass line, sometimes buried so far beneath the sugary pop melody that he had to close his eyes and really concentrate to find it. But it was there, in all of the songs. And the lyrics were almost hilariously downbeat – a bitter, melancholic poetry that was obvious if you listened, but Dave suspected most of the preteen girls who were the audience for these songs weren’t paying a bit of attention. The lyrics spoke of obsession and betrayal, lovers turned against one another – sung by girls and boys so cheerful and bright that you almost had to believe they were all love songs. It was quite clever, actually.

And one or two of the songs were pretty damned brilliant.

“Dan, I’ve got a bit of a favor,” Dave said, calling from the hotel lobby the next morning.

“If this is another request for Lady Gaga tickets, I already told you, they’re impossible to come by.” Behind Dan’s voice Dave could hear traffic noise, and then the familiar sound of a British ambulance. Sometimes he really missed London.

“No, it’s not about Lady Gaga,” Dave said. He glanced across the lobby, where Wilder was still talking to Mart near the concierge’s desk. “I need you to check up on a former songwriter. A. C. Wilder. See if any of your producer friends know what he’s up to now.”

“Wilder? The bloke who wrote for Band of Boys and what’s her name, the purple girl?”

“Yeah, that one,” Dave said. Wilder glanced up at him and Dave quickly turned the other way.

“Well he’s with you, isn’t he?” Dan said.

“Is he?”

“Isn’t he?”

Dave ran a hand through his hair and looked over his shoulder. Wilder was walking his way. “You’re confusing me, Dan. Where’s A. C. Wilder now?”

“I thought he was staying another week with you lot,” Dan said. “That’s what his boss told me, anyway.”

“I knew it!” Dave said.

“Knew what?”

“Gotta go,” Dave said, and he turned off his mobile and spun around. Wilder was standing in front of him.

“Who was that?”

“Dan,” Dave said. “Just, er, going over the schedule with him. Hey, weren’t we supposed to have lost you a few days ago?”

Wilder quickly looked down at his shoes, and he scuffed the toe of one against the other. Dave frowned, and then he realized Wilder’s ears were turning a little pink, and he grinned to himself and tried not to laugh.

“Yeah, about that-”

“You’re lucky Mart likes you,” Dave said. He grabbed Wilder by the arm and spun him around, dragging him back toward Martin. “If it were up to me, we would’ve dropped you out of the plane last week.”

“With a parachute, I hope,” Wilder said.

Dave pretended to make a show of looking him up and down, thinking it over. “Sure. You look light enough. I suppose we could spare one of the kids’ sizes.”

“Thanks a lot. I really feel the love.”

“No problem, mate,” Dave said, and he gave Wilder a brief one-armed hug.

Dave spotted Mart, who was watching the two of them with a raised eyebrow and a funny little smirk on his face. Dave grinned at him, but when he glanced at Wilder, he was surprised to see him blushing again. Dave supposed he wasn’t used to being the center of attention – it was almost adorable, actually.

And that gave Dave an idea.

 

+++

 

They played two nights in Denver, two sell-outs, and it was a welcome relief after the somewhat paltry crowd in Salt Lake City. Dave had been around enough that he didn’t worry about a mediocre gig now and then, but it was still reassuring to come out strong in the next city. And the Denver fans were positively rabid. Dave danced and swayed and swung his hips, and when he threw his sweaty shirt into the front row, he thought he saw one girl faint. He loved it when that happened.

They had three rotating set lists, just to keep the band from becoming bored, but Dave had lined up something special for this second night. They still had an encore ahead of them, but the last song of the main set was something new – something he’d worked out with Mart only the day before. It was a tricky maneuver, tossing a mostly unrehearsed number into the mix, but Dave was feeling brave and confident in a way he hadn’t experienced in years. He couldn’t remember the last time they’d done this for an audience – just played for the fun of it.

As the lights came down, Dave watched Mart settle behind the piano, a soft blue spotlight highlighting the glitter under his eyes and in his hair. Dave spared a quick glance at the wing to his left, where he knew Alan was watching, even though it was too dark to see anything. Then Martin started playing, easy and light, and Dave turned back to the crowd. He could see the fans in front, the concentration on their faces as they tried to figure out which song was coming up. He knew they were assuming this was a softer version of one of Martin’s songs.

Dave dropped his head, listening to the intro, and then he sang, the words clear and effortless even though he’d only learned them two days before. He heard the moment the crowd figured it out – a collective scream and a burst of applause, and pockets of laughter too. Dave looked up from his microphone and though he couldn’t see far into the audience, in the front rows the faces were lit up in delight, and he could see people singing right along with him – the familiar lyrics rolling out easily even so many years later.

It was Wilder’s song – a pop tune that Dave had loved ten years ago, when it’d been a radio hit that helped propel Band of Boys to fame. He might have tagged it as a guilty pleasure at the time, but even then, he’d known it was more than just another catchy tune. And now, with Martin’s particular stamp on the song, and Dave’s own voice, he heard and felt the lyrics become a new sort of poetry. It was still all Wilder, but no longer buried under a corporate veneer, manufactured to sell shiny, bright albums to teenaged girls. Now it was something dirtier, something powerful, and Dave sang it with the intensity and honesty that it deserved.

It seemed as though the entire crowd sang the chorus with him, and as the music faded away the cheers swept over Dave and Martin and the rest of the band, to the back of the stage, and Dave basked in it, yelling into the microphone right along with his fans.

“Thank you, Mr. Wilder!” Dave yelled out, to wild applause. He glanced to his right, wondering if Wilder might dare to join him on stage. But the wings were dark, and Wilder wasn’t there. So he yelled another thank you, and spread his arms wide, and he walked off the stage, slapping Martin on the back as he stood up from the piano.

“That was amazing,” Mart said loudly over the crowd.

“I know! They loved it!” Dave had reached the wings, and he was looking everywhere for Wilder, who he knew had to be lingering backstage somewhere.

But he couldn’t find him right away, and when he finally did, Wilder was standing alone, at the end of a corridor with his back to the stage. Dave walked right up to him and wrapped an arm around his shoulders, and he was opening his mouth to say something – to thank him, or to congratulate him, or maybe just to say his name and give him a proper hug, when Wilder turned around furiously and pushed his arm away.

“What the fuck was that?”

Wilder’s face was pale, and so angry that Dave just stood there, totally stunned.

“What the fuck did you think you were doing?” Wilder said. He pushed Dave hard in the shoulder, and then pushed him again and got right up in his face. “Was that some kind of fucking joke? Let’s make a fucking fool out of the journalist, or wait, even better, the failed rock star? Real fucking funny, Gahan.”

“What?” Dave just stared at him, his head spinning from the shock of Wilder’s anger. “What are you talking about? The song was brilliant. They loved it.”

Wilder laughed unpleasantly. “Sure they did. Who doesn’t love it when a real fucking artist does a cover of some crap pop song?”

“Crap pop song? You think I’d do a cover of some shit I didn’t like?” Dave felt his own anger bubbling up now. “I only did your song because it’s bloody good. I hate to tell you, Wilder, but I don’t do covers of crap anything. I don’t do covers at all, actually, but-”

And Dave stopped, rage and confusion and maybe a little guilt warring inside him, making him unsure of himself.

“But what? But you took pity on me? Thought you’d get me a nice little royalty check?” Alan turned and ran a hand over his hair. “Jesus, I don’t need your fucking pity.”

“No,” Dave said quietly, his anger slipping away as quickly as it’d come. “I just thought you’d like it. That’s all.”

Wilder looked sharply over his shoulder at Dave, the anger still obvious in his eyes and in the hard line of his mouth. Dave found he didn’t particularly want to see it, and he turned away. When Mart called him back for the encore, Dave met Wilder’s eyes briefly, and he shrugged a little and then ran back to the stage. He had a gig to finish. He could worry about the rest later.


	4. Chapter 4

Alan watched Gahan head back to the stage, and he stood there for a while longer, until the music started up again and the stomping and yelling from the crowd turned to cheers and it was obvious Gahan was back for his encore. The noise filled Alan with a new rage, and he stormed off in the opposite direction, needing to get the hell out of there, and now.

The corridor took him past Gahan’s dressing room, and Alan paused there. He had a sudden, intense urge to go inside – to have a look around, dig through his wardrobe and find something he could use for the story. He actually opened the door and took a step inside before he got his head back. He was a journalist, not some bloody detective, and he’d never had much taste for revenge anyway. He couldn’t go rifling through Gahan’s stuff, and he certainly couldn’t use anything he might find – not that he actually expected to find anything anyway. He truly believed Gahan was clean. Alan was just backing out of the room when he spotted Gahan’s cigarettes on a shelf near the door, and without thought he grabbed them and stuffed them in the pocket of his leather jacket.

Alan made his way to the back lot, which was thankfully quiet and dark, and seemed to be empty. Alan let the heavy door close behind him, wondering if he’d locked himself out and not really caring, and then he leaned heavily against the wall, and closed his eyes. He took Gahan’s pack out of his pocket and shook out a cigarette, and he felt like an idiot when he realized he had nothing to light it with. But Gahan had tucked a matchbook into the pack – smart bastard.

Alan had stopped smoking years ago, and the first drag made him cough a bit, but then he took to it like a champ, and after two or three puffs the nicotine was already rushing into his head, making him dizzy and light-headed. It helped to calm him down, at least, but now that the anger was fading, he couldn’t deny the emotions that were simmering just beneath the surface.

He was hurt, and horribly betrayed. He knew he had every right to be furious – Gahan had played a mean, and very public, trick on him, and Alan hated to be made a fool of, more than almost anything. But he could handle the repercussions. His mates would tease him mercilessly, and his colleagues would laugh about him behind his back, and probably in front of him too. Fletch would call him first thing in the morning, once the news from the gig started making the rounds, and ream him out, accuse him of working with Gahan, of getting too close to the story.

And that was the worst of it, because Alan knew now that he was too close. He’d let Gahan in – let him in far enough that he could hurt Alan. And not just hurt his career, but hurt his fucking feelings, and just the idea of that made the anger well again. Alan banged his head against the wall, hard enough that little sparks went off behind his eyes.

“Fuck. Fuck this. Fuck Gahan.”

Alan ran his free hand over his face. When he’d finished the first cigarette he lit a new one. He was on his third when the back door opened, and Gahan ducked his head out.

He looked surprised to see Alan, although Alan imagined he must have been looking for him, since there was no reason for Gahan to be out here just yet. The gig must have just ended, and Gahan was still sweaty and flushed.

Gahan didn’t say anything. He toed off a shoe and wedged it between the door and the building, and then he stood in front of Alan – but far enough away that he was out of reach, Alan noticed.

“Hope you left some of those for me,” Gahan said, and he held out his hand.

Alan dug for the cigarettes and handed the pack over, along with the matches. Gahan lit up and closed his eyes as he took the first deep drag.

“Fuck, I needed that,” Gahan said through a trail of smoke as he exhaled.

“Tough night?” Alan said, his words clipped and short.

Gahan regarded him for a moment, then shook his head. “No, pretty awesome, actually. Great crowd. I think it was one of our best.”

“Well cheers, then,” Alan said.

“Thanks,” Gahan said. He ran a hand over his hair, which was already slicked back and damp. “Look, about the song-”

“Don’t bother,” Alan said, waving him off. He blew a stream of smoke to the side, politely out of Gahan’s face. “You said the crowd liked it, yeah? Got a good laugh?”

“No. C’mon, man. I told you, it wasn’t a joke.”

“Right.”

“Listen to me,” Gahan said. “Just listen. I’m sorry I didn’t ask you about it first, all right? But I found out you’d written some songs, and when you were playing the other night, it was so bloody good I thought I’d see what you’d been up to before. And you had some good stuff. Great stuff.”

Alan rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t help the pride that fluttered in his stomach, and he couldn’t meet Gahan’s eyes. “Stop it. I don’t need your fucking flattery.”

“I swear, man, I’m telling the truth,” Dave said. “I only played that bloody song tonight because it’s good, and because I thought you’d get a kick out of it. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

Alan felt a flare of anger and shame, and he threw his cigarette on the ground and stubbed it out with the toe of his boot, grinding it angrily into the pavement.

“You didn’t bloody hurt my feelings,” Alan said, staring at the ground.

Gahan was quiet, and Alan felt his eyes on him. “Well, good. Because that wasn’t the point.”

“Okay.”

“Yeah.”

They both just stood there, and Alan was wondering if Gahan felt as uncomfortable as he did, and he was trying to think up something to say to break the awkward silence when he felt his mobile buzzing in the pocket of his jeans. Alan dug it out and winced at the caller ID.

“Fuck,” he said. He wasn’t sure if he should answer.

“Who is it?”

“My editor,” Alan said miserably, and then he decided he couldn’t really put it off. He forced a cheery tone into his voice and said, “Hey, Fletch. What’s happening?”

“Did Dave Gahan just play ‘Bed on fucking Fire’ in front of 50,000 people in fucking Denver?”

Alan closed his eyes and cringed. “More like 20,000, actually.”

“Jesus Christ, Wilder, what the fuck were you thinking?”

“It wasn’t my fault!” Alan said. “I swear, boss, I didn’t know about it. I had no idea- hey-”

Gahan ripped the mobile out of Alan’s hand and he turned and walked a few paces away before taking over the conversation. Alan made to grab at his arm, but Gahan just brushed him off and moved farther away, and Alan finally decided to let him go. He was screwed anyway, and he didn’t really see how Gahan could make the situation any worse. Alan sank back against the wall and waited, Gahan’s words inaudible from the far side of the lot where he’d stopped.

The conversation was mercifully short, at least, and when Gahan came back over he had a funny, stunned sort of smile on his face. He handed the mobile back to Alan.

“What’d he say?”

“It’s a hit,” Gahan said. “The song’s a fucking hit. It’s all over the internet. Everyone’s talking about it. Your boss, Fletch or whatever, he heard some DJs talking about it on the fucking radio. They were playing your song, man.”

Gahan was grinning widely, and Alan just stared at him, completely unable to understand what he was saying.

He finally managed to say, “My song?” and then Gahan was nodding, and he suddenly pulled Alan into a hug, strong and almost violent, his arms wrapping around Alan’s waist and holding tight. Alan just stood there, shocked still for a moment, before he laughed and grinned into Gahan’s shoulder, and hugged him right back.

“Your fucking song, man,” Gahan said. “No joke.”

 

+++

 

Dave insisted they go out and celebrate, and over Mart’s and Wilder’s protests he dragged them to a steakhouse that had the best prime rib in the western United States and a dining room that stayed open well past midnight.

“Steak, mate?” Martin said with a grimace.

“I’m with Mart,” Wilder said. “All that red meat, it’s bad for your heart.”

“And the environment,” Martin said, nodding.

“Shut it, both of you. I can’t drink, I can’t shoot up, I’m having a bloody fucking steak.” The waiter, who looked all of 18 and very nervous, was standing over their table, waiting for their orders. Dave grinned at him. “Literally, mate. I want it bloody.”

“Rare,” the waiter said, writing in his notebook. He raised an eyebrow at Wilder, who sighed.

“Well done. And a house salad, please. Dressing on the side.”

Martin set down his menu. “Same for me.”

“Pansies,” Dave said.

While they waited for their food to arrive, Dave and Martin filled Wilder in on the gig, and how obviously delighted the audience had been when they’d started into “Bed on Fire.” With a little prodding, Wilder admitted that the song had been one of his favorites, and Dave was pleased he’d managed to pick the right one. But he was even happier to see Wilder relaxed and smiling again – apparently he’d decided to believe that Dave hadn’t been taking the piss, or at least Wilder had forgiven him.

“When did you blokes even have time to rehearse? I thought I was with you pretty much every minute,” Wilder said. The salads arrived, and he and Martin both dumped the dressing all over their lettuce, soaking their plates. Dave tactfully kept his mouth shut.

“You had to go the toilet sometimes,” Dave said.

“And sleep,” Martin said.

“I don’t sleep,” Wilder said, his mouth full of lettuce. He pointed his fork at Dave. “Not when you’re awake, anyway.”

“Or so you thought,” Dave said.

Wilder narrowed his eyes at him, and Dave nearly wondered if Wilder was going to suggest they share a room from now on – get the full Dave Gahan experience. But Wilder finally looked back at his plate and stabbed another bite of lettuce.

“Well, I’m sure this’ll all be old news tomorrow,” he said.

“You think?” Martin said.

“Sure. I mean, what’s the story? Dave Gahan does a cover of a bubblegum ‘90s hit, big deal. Tomorrow some new rock star will overdose-” Wilder paused and winced, and Dave flashed him a forgiving smile. “Anyway, no one will give a shit about ‘Bed on Fire’ by tomorrow morning. End of the day at best.”

Martin seemed to consider Wilder’s words, and he finally shrugged. “Let’s hope you get some tidy residuals first, yeah?”

“I’ll drink to that,” Wilder said with a laugh, raising his glass of wine.

They clinked their glasses together, and moved the conversation on to safer topics – like the war in Iraq, the upcoming elections in England, and football. By 2 a.m., Wilder and Martin had nearly come to blows over the most recent QPR match, but all of them ended up laughing so hard that their poor waiter was sent over to kick them out. Dave left him a nice fat tip anyway.

They stumbled back to the hotel – or Mart and Wilder did anyway, since Dave was perfectly, painfully sober. These days, he didn’t much like spending time with drunks, but he’d always enjoyed a slightly tipsy Martin, who tended to open up after a few cocktails. Actually, sometimes he opened up too much, at least when it came to his trousers, but Dave had probably learned more about Martin – his fears and his passions, his inspiration and his favorite sexual positions – during drunk nights on the town than he ever had in hours upon hours of quiet, sober conversation.

Drinking didn’t seem to lower Wilder’s inhibitions, exactly, but as Dave watched him swagger into the hotel, an arm slung around Mart’s shoulders, he recognized a certain boyish charm in Wilder’s face that wasn’t usually there. His smile was easy, maybe even goofy, and his eyes were bright and warm. He grinned at Dave, and Dave felt his chest seize up with something it took him a long moment to recognize – it was a sort of fondness, mixed with a sudden, intense desire to touch Wilder, to be close to him. Dave just stood there, feeling a little dumbstruck, and when Mart and Wilder caught up to him, Wilder swung his other arm over Dave’s shoulders.

“Mart’s off to bed,” Alan announced.

“Already?” Dave said. He was hyperaware of the weight of Wilder’s arm, and his warm skin pressed up against the back of Dave’s neck.

“Got that interview at 8,” Mart said.

“Oh. Right.” The three of them filed into the lift and broke apart – Wilder long and loose as he leaned against the back wall, and Dave feeling a very familiar tightness in his trousers. “So.”

There was a silence, and then Wilder and Mart exchanged a look before Wilder raised an eyebrow at Dave.

“So?”

“Er. I guess it’s bedtime, then.”

Wilder frowned at him, then pulled out his mobile to check the time, and frowned again. “It’s already 3. Did you have something in mind?”

Dave shrugged and stared at his fingers. He tended to go to bed around this time – long gone were the days when he’d stay up past dawn, or sometimes go days without sleeping, when he was on a major bender. But now he realized he didn’t want to be alone. Actually, it was more than that – he didn’t want to say goodnight.

So when Wilder said, “All right, let’s raid the booze in your room, then,” Dave felt his stomach do a slow, not entirely unpleasant flip-flop. “I imagine you’ve got plenty left,” Wilder added with a playful smirk.

“Only non-alcoholic beer, but there’s loads of it,” Dave said, enjoying the look of horror on Wilder’s face. He shrugged. “My sponsor said it’s not a good idea to keep booze in the room.”

“But non-alcoholic beer, mate? If anything’s going to drive you to the bottle again, it’ll be that shit.”

“It’s not that bad,” Dave said, but when Wilder just stared at him, eyes narrowed, Dave laughed. “Okay, fine, it’s shit. Come on over anyway, and maybe we can do a few lines of baking soda too.”

“Now we’re talking,” Wilder said.

Dave made a half-hearted attempt to talk Mart into staying up with them, but he begged off, claiming he’d be useless for the interview if he didn’t get at least three or four hours of sleep. Dave wasn’t positive – and he might’ve just been paranoid – but he could’ve sworn that Martin winked at him before he turned and headed for his own hotel room. Dave watched him walk away for a moment, until Wilder bumped his shoulder and nodded his head toward Dave’s own room.

“So, are you taking me to your den of not-quite-depravity or what?”

“Impatient, are we?” Dave said. He led the way down the corridor and stopped in front of his door, fumbling with his keycard. His palms were sweaty and his fingers were shaking and he couldn’t believe it – he was bloody nervous.

After three swipes with his card he finally got the door open, and he waved Wilder inside, conveniently ignoring the obvious smirk on his face. Dave’s room was actually a suite on the second-to-top floor with an impressive view of the Rockies, and when Wilder stopped in the sitting room and looked all around, Dave assumed he was admiring the whole set-up.

And then Wilder turned back to him and said, “Jesus, Gahan, are you always such a slob?”

Dave opened his mouth to protest, but then he took a good look around – and he had to admit, it looked like a suitcase had exploded. He spotted three pairs of trousers, four shirts, two leather jackets and more pairs of underwear than he could count – most of them in embarrassingly colorful, shiny fabrics – all spread over the sofa and armchairs. Dave couldn’t help it, he used a lot of space when he was getting dressed.

“Erm-”

Wilder laughed, and Dave felt the sides of his face heat up. He darted around the room picking up all of the bits and pieces of clothing and then tossed them all in the bedroom and shut the door.

“You were saying?”

“I was saying,” Wilder said, laughing still, “nice place you’ve got here.”

He took a seat on the couch, kicking his feet up on the coffee table and spreading his arms over the back cushions. Dave got them both bottles of beer and handed one to Wilder before sitting beside him on the couch. Wilder frowned at the bottle.

“Fuck, I thought you were joking,” he said.

Dave grinned and clinked his bottle against Wilder’s. “It’s an acquired taste,” he said, and took a long swallow of his own. He choked immediately and almost spit it right back up.

“Looks like you’re still acquiring it,” Wilder said, setting his own beer on the table without a taste. “So.”

Dave took another swig of beer, wincing at the truly horrid taste and praying for at least a bit of courage. He was pretty sure these near-beers had some tiny amount of alcohol in them. He glanced back at Wilder, who seemed to be studying him, in that intense sort of way that always made Dave feel exposed and vulnerable – and oddly safe too. Sometimes he got the sense that Wilder felt almost protective of him, which was a dangerous assumption to make – about anyone, but especially a journalist. Still, Dave couldn’t help himself, and just now, he realized he liked the way Wilder was watching him. Dave smiled at him, and Wilder looked away, his lips twitching into a smile of his own.

“I’m sorry,” Wilder said. “About earlier tonight. For losing my shit and all that. It’s just, that’s all from another lifetime ago, you know?”

Dave waved him off. “I should’ve told you ahead of time.”

“Yeah, but I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that.”

“Or stolen my cigarettes.”

“Or that,” Wilder said with a laugh. “Anyway, I meant to tell you, the song, it actually sounded pretty bloody good. I mean, what I heard of it over the rage pounding in my ears.”

“Yeah? You liked it?”

“Better than the original, mate.”

Dave laughed now. “That’s not really saying much, actually.”

“No, it’s really not.”

“What was it like?” Dave said. “It must’ve been torture for you, writing all that pop shit.”

Wilder shrugged. “The songwriting wasn’t too bad,” he said. “Another couple years of it and I might’ve killed myself, but it wasn’t a bad way to make some money. It was the so-called artists I couldn’t fucking stand.”

“You mean Lavender Lily wasn’t the sweetheart everyone read about?”

“God, what a fucking bitch,” Wilder said with a shudder. “And don’t even ask about The Heartstoppers. I would’ve stuck a bloody pitchfork in their hearts if I’d thought they actually had ‘em. Hell, even their agent hated them. Passionately so.”

“C’mon, The Heartstoppers? They were what, 14? 15?”

“Who even knows. Age doesn’t matter though, does it? Fucking rock stars, they’re all the same. Bloody arrogant bastards.” Dave just waited out the silence, watching Wilder, who finally closed his eyes with a wince. “Um, present company excluded.”

“There you go,” Dave said.

He asked Wilder about Band of Boys then, and about his song, “Bed on Fire,” and what the lyrics were supposed to mean, and where his inspiration had come from. It felt strange, and strangely comforting, to be the one asking the questions for once, and for his part, Wilder didn’t seem to mind. Dave wasn’t sure if it was the liquor from earlier, or if Wilder was just like this sometimes, when he was a little sleepy and relaxed, coming to the end of a difficult day.

They talked for hours, until the sky was turning gray and the Rockies were starting to glow orange and gold in the sunrise. Wilder yawned and covered his mouth. He’d sunk down deep onto the sofa, and Dave was curled up beside him.

“What time are we leaving for Albuquerque?”

“Noon, I think,” Dave said.

“Fuck,” Wilder said. He dug around in his trousers for his mobile. “It’s 6. Still time for five hours, I guess.”

Wilder frowned at his mobile and turned it on, punching at the keypad. Dave heard his voicemail come on, and Wilder listened for a bit and then swore again.

“What’s wrong?”

“Fletch,” Wilder said, turning off the phone. “He must’ve called earlier.”

“What’d he say?”

Wilder didn’t answer right away. He just rubbed his eyes, and finally tucked the phone in his pocket and sat up on the sofa.

“He wants me to come back. Today.”

“Today? Like, today?”

“Well, not like yesterday,” Wilder said with a humorless laugh.

“Shit.”

Wilder looked up at him in surprise. “Thought you’d be glad to be rid of me?”

“Well, yeah,” Dave said quickly. “But, you know, Mart’s gotten kind of attached to you.”

Wilder smiled a little, and Dave knew he wasn’t hiding a thing. “Good to hear, since I’ve gotten kind of attached to Mart.”

There was an odd, tense moment, and Dave wanted to say something, but he had no idea what. Then Wilder sighed and looked away, and he pushed to his feet. He turned back to Dave and thrust out his hand, and Dave just stared at it before he figured out Wilder was saying goodbye.

He took Wilder’s hand, which was warm and strangely soft, and fuck if he didn’t want to feel that hand on him, all over him. They shook, and Dave thought both of them were reluctant to let go.

“Thank you,” Wilder said, finally dropping Dave’s hand. “You’ve been a good sport about all this.”

“Yeah,” Dave said quietly. “Well. I hope you got a good story and all that.”

Wilder smiled at him and nodded. “I think I did, actually.”

“Now you’re scaring me, mate.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll leave out the bit where you tried to poison me with the non-alcoholic beer. But the hookers are staying in.”

‘That seems only fair,” Dave said, forcing himself to smile back at him.

“Cheers, mate,” Wilder said. “Good luck and all that.”

“Same to you, Wilder.”

He turned and headed toward the door, and then he was gone. Dave had no idea if he’d ever see him again. And he had no idea why he cared so much.

“Fuck,” Dave said, collapsing back into the sofa.

 

+++

 

Alan had caught an early flight back to L.A. – partly because he wanted to get back in Fletch’s good graces, and partly because he wanted to avoid running into Gahan in the hotel lobby and risk an awkward second goodbye; the first had been strange enough. He’d gone straight from the airport to the newsroom, and then straight into Fletch’s office – and Fletch had sent him straight home.

“You look like shit,” he’d said, leaning back in his chair. “Get some sleep. We need the story by the end of the week.”

Alan had gone back to his apartment and slept as instructed, but it’d been a restless sleep, filled with vivid dreams, and he’d finally gotten up after only a couple of hours. Now it was late afternoon and he was sitting with his laptop, determined to get a good start on his story, at least.

Except he had no idea what to write. He sipped at his coffee and stared at the blank screen. His recorder and notebook were on the desk, but he knew he wouldn’t need them right away. He had a good memory for the basics – he’d only need the recorder to get the details just right and confirm his quotes. The story itself wasn’t going to be in his notes.

Profiles were always the most challenging stories to write. They carried so much weight – to tell one person’s story in just a few thousand words, to have it be honest and real, and fair, it was an impossible task, really. Alan paced around his apartment, he messed around at the upright piano shoved against one wall, he threw a rubber ball against the ceiling until the neighbor thumped a complaint. But none of his usual tricks were working – the words weren’t coming. Finally he got up and walked to the convenience store down the street and bought a pack of cigarettes, and he sat on the steps in front of his building and smoked, and he thought about Gahan. On stage, in his dressing room, talking to his son, laughing with Mart – curled up on a hotel sofa, nursing a bottle of fake beer and talking until dawn.

It was all there. He knew the story was there, tickling the back of his brain. But it was all tangled up in Alan’s own memories and emotions, and as much as he didn’t want to admit it, he thought that maybe he didn’t actually want to tear it all apart. Alan had never been afraid of a story before, but this one scared the shit out of him.

“Jesus, get a grip,” he said to himself, pulling at his hair and taking a drag from his cigarette. It made him feel dizzy and sick.

He knew exactly what the problem was. He’d felt it from the start of the tour, and by the last night in Gahan’s hotel room – Christ, that had been only hours ago – Alan had known he was done for. He’d wanted to touch Gahan. To brush his fingers over the back of his neck, to feel the stubble on his cheek, to lay a hand on his thigh, and to feel Gahan do the same. He’d wanted to kiss him, badly. And he’d known full well that Gahan had felt the same.

Alan was in a bad spot. The worst spot. It wasn’t such a rare thing, to like the people he was writing about. Even in this fucking industry, with all of the arsehole managers and their arrogant stars, there were people he’d trusted and might have considered friends, under different circumstances. But he’d never wanted to fuck them – or more than that, even. And thank God for that, because Alan was fucking good at his job. He was smart and he was fair, and above all, he was ethical. And one of the most important moral codes was that you didn’t make friends with your subjects – and you certainly didn’t fall in love with them.

“You’re an idiot, Wilder,” he said, and flicked his cigarette into the street.

He went back into his apartment and ordered a pizza and sat down to watch television, ignoring the blank white screen of his laptop. He wasn’t hungry, and he wasn’t in the mood to watch TV, but he had to do something or else he was going to go mad. He flipped through the stations, barely paying any attention to what was on, but he stopped when he caught Gahan’s face on one of the music channels. He’d skipped past it before stopping, so he skipped back a few channels and then set down the remote.

Gahan was on stage singing, and Alan realized it was his performance of Alan’s own song. There was just a brief snippet, and then the program cut to some young television host talking about what a huge hit the song was, and how Gahan was planning to release a single of it in a few weeks. Alan sat back on his couch, his heart thumping in his chest. Just seeing Gahan on stage, performing, singing Alan’s song – it was enough to make him feel giddy and light-headed. It was a rush, and Alan realized he was smiling despite himself.

He was so fucked.

But then, in a moment of startling clarity, Alan knew what he was going to write. He sat up, barely aware that he was holding his breath, and it was almost as though he could feel the words falling into place in his head. He reached for a pen on the coffee table and started scribbling notes on the back of his gas bill envelope. First he had just a few words for the start of the story, then an idea for the first quote, and in minutes he had an outline – the entire story mapped out, start to finish. He picked up the envelope and read it all over, and then he jumped up and nearly ran to his laptop. He worked until midnight, barely pausing to pay for his pizza and then letting it grow cold on the coffee table. When he was done, he sat back in his chair with a groan, feeling stiff and sore, and he ran a hand through his hair.

It was a good story. Great, even. He sent it to his work email and then he got up and stretched. He put the full pizza in the refrigerator, and then he fell on his sofa and slept.

 

+++

 

“You wrote this all last night?” Fletch said. He had a printout of Alan’s story in his hands.

Alan nodded and crossed his legs. He was feeling amazingly refreshed this morning after sleeping for a full eight hours – he couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept that much at once. But he’d been nervous all morning, wondering what Fletch would make of the story. It wasn’t anything like his usual work.

“Kessler’s going to hate it,” Fletch said. “You know that.”

Alan shrugged. Neither of them had much respect for the managing editor. Besides, Alan found he really only cared what Fletch had to say. He kept his mouth shut and waited.

Fletch flipped through the stapled pages of the printout, and Alan watched his lips move as he reread a section. He picked up a pen and scribbled a short note, and Alan badly wanted to rip the papers out of his hands and read what he’d written down. He folded his arms over his chest instead.

Finally Fletch set down the printed story and folded his hands over it.

“It’s bloody good,” he said.

Alan had to bite his tongue to keep from asking, ‘Really? You like it?’ But he knew he was grinning like an idiot, especially when Fletch shook his head and laughed.

“I don’t know how you pulled it off, Wilder. It’s brilliant. And you know how it pains me to say that.”

Alan laughed too, and it felt so good, like weeks of tension were slipping away. There was still an odd bundle of anxiety in his stomach, but he knew that wouldn’t be going away any time soon. Fletch handed the papers over to Alan, who flipped through them, trying to decipher Fletch’s horrible handwriting.

“Just a few revisions, I think,” Fletch said. “That bit toward the end, with the girl crying in the audience, that can use some work.”

Alan nodded, smiling to himself as he read a few of Fletch’s suggestions. All and all, he really wasn’t asking for a lot of revisions. Alan thought he could have the final draft done by the end of the day.

In fact, the revisions only took a few hours, and he was done even earlier than he’d expected. He knocked on Fletch’s office door at 4, and he stood over his chair as Fletch read the final version on his computer.

“Nice work,” Fletch said, closing the story with a click of his mouse. “I’ll send it off to Kessler before I leave, then we won’t have to deal with him until tomorrow morning. Now, I think you owe me 30 inches on Eastern European rappers, right?”

“Actually,” Alan said. He sat on Fletch’s desk and took a deep breath. “I was wondering if I could take off the rest of the week. Make a long weekend out of it.”

Fletch frowned, but he didn’t say no right away, which was a good sign. “Kessler’s going to have questions.”

“You can deal with him. You know if I’m here we’ll just end up fighting and scaring the interns.”

Fletch nodded, but he still wasn’t smiling. “What’re you going to do with four days off? You’ll be bored out of your mind.”

Sometimes it scared Alan how well his boss knew him. That just wasn’t healthy. But he shrugged and said, “Don’t know. Maybe I’ll go fishing.”

“Fishing.”

“Sure. I can fish.”

The frown deepened and Alan was afraid Fletch was going to say no, but then he glanced down at the calendar on his desk and wrote Alan’s name in red letters on the remainder of the week.

“Fine. Take it off. I reckon you’ve earned it.”

“Thanks, Boss,” Alan said, and he got up and headed for the door.

“Wilder.” Alan looked at Fletch over his shoulder. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Alan said.

 

+++

 

Dave stepped off stage and took the towel that was handed to him. It hadn’t been their best gig, and he was feeling hot and tired, and wired in a way that wasn’t at all pleasant. He knew Martin would ask him to go out again tonight, but he just wasn’t in the mood. He rubbed the towel over his face and hair, barely paying attention to the activity around him and trusting Daryl, who was tagging along beside him, to get him back to his dressing room with a minimum of fuss.

Dave was scrubbing the towel over his face again when he walked into the dressing room, so when he heard someone cough, he nearly jumped out of his skin.

“Fuck, don’t do that,” Dave said, his heart hammering in his chest. Then he turned toward the couch. “Oh.”

Wilder was there, sprawled out like he was home, with his legs stretched out in front of him and his arms spread across the back of the sofa – looking as cool and comfortable as he had that night in Dave’s hotel room. But something seemed different. Wilder’s cheeks were a little flushed, and there was a tension in his shoulders, and in his smile, that made Dave nervous – and a little excited, if he was honest.

Then Wilder got up, and Dave saw that smile falter just a little. Wilder walked right up to Dave and stopped, standing so close that Dave could feel the warmth of his body, and Wilder’s breath on his face.

“Sorry I scared you,” he said. He smelled good. A little minty, like he’d just brushed his teeth, and faintly of some familiar brand of cologne.

“You didn’t,” Dave said.

“Good,” Wilder said. He licked his lips. “I finished the story.”

Dave nodded. His heart was racing and he felt like he couldn’t quite catch his breath.

“Dave-”

Dave didn’t let him finish. He leaned in, swallowing the rest of Alan’s words with a kiss that was tentative for only a second before it turned needy, and so desperate and wild that Dave had no idea how they’d managed to wait so long. He grabbed Alan’s hips and pulled him close, and Alan moaned into his mouth, kissing him like he was starving. He felt Alan’s hand on the back of his neck, and in his hair. Dave could barely breathe but he never wanted to stop.

Finally Alan pulled away, breathing hard. He stared at Dave, looking wild-eyed and so fucking happy that Dave laughed.

Alan shrugged and lifted an eyebrow. “What can I say? I missed Mart.”

“He missed you too, mate,” Dave said. And Alan kissed him again, and Dave didn’t ask why he’d come back, or when he’d be leaving again. It didn’t matter. He was here now, finally.


	5. Chapter 5

Alan would have been happy to spend the night in Dave’s dressing room – just making out on the sofa like two teenagers, thrilled just to be sharing the same space, to finally have everything out in the open. Or all the important bits, anyway. On the flight from Los Angeles there’d been time for Alan to second-guess himself, to wonder what the fuck he was doing – to his life, to his career, to Dave. But every time he’d tried to panic, his worries had refused to take shape. He’d been nervous, of course, his palms sweaty, his heart racing. He’d drunk three cocktails on the two-hour flight. But he’d only been nervous about Dave’s reaction. What he’d do if Dave didn’t want to see him, if he’d been wrong all along. If Dave had just the smallest bit of sense – which Alan seemed to have dumped out the window after turning in his story – he’d send Alan right back to California.

It was a good thing Dave was pretty bloody senseless, Alan thought, as he tugged Dave toward the couch and shoved him onto it. Alan was already straddling Dave, holding onto his shoulders and kissing him sloppily, when Dave laughed and pushed him back. Alan grunted in frustration but fell back on his heels, although he stayed in Dave’s lap.

“Not that I’m not happy to see you,” Dave said, and he looked pointedly at Alan’s crotch, “and I can see how happy you are to see me. But I really need a shower, mate.”

“Fuck showers,” Alan said, and he leaned in with plans to kiss Dave until his lips were bruised and he was begging for more.

Except now that Dave had brought it up, Alan could feel that Dave’s shirt was completely drenched across his shoulders and chest, and his neck was shiny with sweat. His hair was actually dripping with it.

“Um-”

“Exactly,” Dave said. He kissed Alan on the mouth. “Five minutes. Just give me five minutes.”

Alan groaned but he fell off to the side and let Dave get up. “Five minutes.”

Dave grinned at him and got up from the couch. He was across the room, door opened to the shower, when he paused and looked back at Alan. His eyes were very wide, and suspiciously bright. “Fuck. You came back.”

“Yeah,” Alan said, smiling at him. “I did.”

“Wasn’t expecting that,” Dave said, his face lit up entirely with a grin.

“Four minutes,” Alan said. Dave laughed and disappeared into the bathroom, and seconds later Alan heard the shower start up.

Alan sprawled out on the couch, spreading his arms over the back of it and letting his head fall into the cushions. He smiled up at the ceiling, feeling giddy with relief, and something else that he didn’t want to consider too closely. He was happy – so happy that he knew he must look like an idiot, sitting back on this sofa with a dumb grin on his face, and that just made him laugh out loud. He could hear Dave singing faintly over the shower, his voice dry and broken as he went over his vocal drills. There was something warm and familiar about the sound of him, and Alan thought he wouldn’t mind a bit if Dave took longer than five minutes in the shower, because right now, he was happy to just sit here and wait, and listen, and anticipate.

There was a knock on Dave’s dressing room door, and Alan wondered if he should answer it. He’d rarely seen Dave immediately after a gig, and he had no idea what the usual pattern was – if Dave was ushered into a waiting car right away, or if someone usually dropped off fresh clothes or some food and drink. The knock came again, and it wasn’t loud enough to hear over the shower, so Alan got up and opened the door.

Martin stood in the corridor and his eyes shot open in surprise. “It’s you.”

Alan couldn’t help smiling, and he made a show of looking over both shoulders and then pointing at his own chest. “You’re right! It is me.” 

“Bastard,” Martin said with a laugh. “Thought you left.”

“I did,” Alan said. “And then I came back.”

Martin studied him for a moment, a faint smile playing at his lips, and then he nodded once. “I’m glad,” he said simply. He had a towel draped over the back of his neck and he pulled it forward and mopped at his face, where sweat had collected on his forehead and upper lip. “Is Dave in there? I thought I’d see if he wanted to go out tonight. And you too, I reckon, now that you’re here.”

Alan glanced over at the shower, which was turned off now. The bathroom door cracked open a bit but all Alan could see were great puffs of steam.

“Um, I’ll ask-”

“Actually,” Martin said, laughing again, “don’t ask. Tell him I’ll see him in the morning.”

Alan could feel his ears burning, and he ducked his head, which just made Martin laugh louder. “Er. I’ll let him know.”

“See you tomorrow, Alan,” Martin said. He gripped Alan’s shoulder, and then he took off down the corridor, and Alan closed the door quietly behind him.

“Was that Mart?” Dave said, calling out from the bathroom.

“Yeah,” Alan said. Dave walked out, a towel slung around his hips. He ran his hands over his wet hair, slicking it back off his face, and Alan couldn’t stop staring at his bare chest, at the muscles over his abdomen and the soft dusting of hair, and the drops of water that still clung to his skin in places. 

“What’d he want?” Dave said. He was drying his hair with a second towel now.

“He wanted us to go out tonight,” Alan said. He crossed the room in two steps, and he wrapped his arms around Dave’s waist. “But then he changed his mind. I think he knows.”

Alan kissed Dave’s lips, which were warm and soft from the shower, and he felt Dave smile against him.

“Mart’s a smart lad,” Dave said, his words tangled in Alan’s kiss.

“Smarter than the two of us, I think,” Alan said, and when Dave laughed, his breath warm against Alan’s mouth, Alan laughed with him. He pulled Dave toward him, and let his hands wander over Dave’s back, and they kissed just like that for a long time.

When the next knock came, it was Daryl, telling him his car was ready. Dave pulled away from Alan, only just far enough to look him in the eye. “My place?”

“I hope so, since I don’t have anywhere else to go,” Alan said.

“Feeling pretty confident, were you?”

Alan shrugged. “Wasn’t really thinking about much of anything. I just wanted to find you first.”

“And stick your tongue down my throat, apparently,” Dave said.

“That too,” Alan said with a smirk.

 

+++

 

They didn’t actually go straight to Dave’s hotel room, because Dave was starving and his stomach kept rumbling loud enough to be heard over the car engine and make Alan laugh. Dave had never been able to eat much before a gig and he was used to going out afterward for a proper dinner, or ordering a sandwich back in his room, if it’d been a particularly brutal night. And as much as he wanted to race back to the hotel and molest Alan in the king-sized bed there, Dave wasn’t in his 20s anymore – he needed sustenance first.

“Not steak again,” Alan said, in the back seat of Dave’s car. “Not if you want me to kiss you again tonight.”

“Such a romantic,” Dave said, but he grinned and told the driver to take them to an Italian restaurant instead.

They had a long, leisurely dinner, and to Dave’s great surprise Alan turned out to be quite the chatty bloke, when the tables were turned and he wasn’t the one asking all the questions. Dave sat back in the booth, sipping at the sparkling water that felt so good on his throat – bubbly and cool and soothing – and he listened, for what could have been hours. Alan talked about his family, and about growing up in a home filled with music and passion, and how frustrated his parents had been when he’d started writing pop songs, and how angry when he’d quit that and turned to writing instead.

“But it was always what I wanted to do, you know?” Alan said, studying Dave’s face as though he really didn’t expect Dave to understand. Dave just smiled and nodded, and he brushed a quick thumb over the back of Alan’s hand.

“Why writing?” he said.

“Everyone’s got a story to tell,” Alan said with a small shrug. He ran a finger around the rim of his water glass, like he wanted to make it sing for him. “I guess when I meet people, I see their stories, in everything they do. Or I hear them, rather. It’s kind of like music, in a way. The stories are everywhere. Just the smallest gesture gives away so much.”

Dave lifted his eyebrows and grinned at him. “Yeah? What’d my gestures tell you?”

Alan seemed to think over his answer, staring into his water, tipping the glass until it was just about to spill. “That you’re a good father,” Alan said slowly. “That you care a lot more than you want people to know.”

Dave just stared at him, his mouth hanging open. They’d never talked about Jack – Alan had never asked, and Dave had never volunteered anything.

“He’s not in the story,” Alan said quickly. “I wouldn’t do that.”

“I know you wouldn’t,” Dave said, and it was true. He trusted Alan – had trusted him for a long time. “So what’s your next story? You doing the big Lady Gaga profile? Justin Bieber?”

Alan laughed and shook his head. “They only let me do the aging celebrity profiles. After you it’ll probably be Keith Richards, or Ringo. Whoever’s next on the death watch.”

“Bastard,” Dave said, tossing his napkin at Alan’s face.

“Actually,” Alan said, tucking Dave’s napkin into his lap, “I’m thinking of asking for a bit of time off next year. There’s a book I’ve been wanting to write.”

“A book? A whole book?” Dave said.

“Yeah,” Alan said, laughing. “A whole book. A novel, actually.”

“Let me guess,” Dave said, folding his hands in front of him and beaming at Alan. “It’s about a dashing young rock star who travels around the world breaking hearts and saving lives with his beautiful voice.”

“No, no, nothing boring like that,” Alan said with a dismissive wave.

They both laughed, but Alan refused to reveal any more of his book, and Dave was perceptive enough to let it go, for the time being. Anyway, the pasta had arrived, and Dave found he was just happy to be sharing a meal with Alan – warm and comfortable and easy, and so genuine. He didn’t know if it was the time they’d already shared that had made him so relaxed – that he’d already revealed so much, and that he’d already decided to trust Alan, whether that was naïve or not. Or it could have been something much less logical – a deeper, baser intimacy that allowed him to just let go and be with this man he’d known for only a few weeks.

Dave didn’t want to question it, whatever it was. He’d never been good at that anyway – had learned long ago that he had to live on instinct, even if it didn’t always drive him in the right direction, or on the easiest path.

After dinner they did go back to Dave’s hotel room, and they moved slowly, slipping off shirts and trousers, touching and tasting and exchanging smiles and laughter and quiet, easy jokes. They were lying on the bed, Dave stretched out over Alan’s body, kissing his neck and shoulder and the curve of his jaw, when he stopped and looked Alan in the eye, suddenly serious.

“You ever been with a bloke before?” Dave said.

“I’m gay,” Alan said with a small smile.

“Oh. Well then, I guess you have.”

Alan laughed softly. “What about you?”

“I’m a rock and roll singer and former junkie. I’ve been with anything that breathes.”

“That might have been too much information,” Alan said with a grin, nipping at Dave’s lips. “Let’s stop talking now.”

Alan swallowed Dave’s laugh with a kiss, and Dave let him roll on top, enjoying the weight of Alan’s body, wanting to draw Alan somehow closer to him. He tugged at Alan’s hips, pulling him down so that Alan’s erection slid next to his own. Alan was hard and already wet, and he rutted against Dave’s skin, and Dave dug his fingers into Alan’s arse to encourage him.

“Condom,” Alan said into the crook of Dave’s neck.

Dave thought about telling Alan that he was clean, but a reformed druggie could only expect so much trust. He pushed Alan up and rolled to his side, and then he dug through the pocket of his jeans, crumpled on the floor next to the bed, until he found his wallet, and the condom inside. He fell back on the bed and handed the condom to Alan, who raised an eyebrow.

“You really carry condoms in your wallet? Are you 15?”

“Did you not catch the part about being a rock and roll singer?” Dave said. “Just because I don’t shoot up anymore doesn’t mean I stopped having sex.”

Alan chuckled and gave him a quick kiss on mouth. “You’re such a slut.”

Dave wasn’t, not really. But he thought Alan knew that, so he laughed and said, “Just doing the world a favor.”

“You’re that good, are you?”

“Why don’t you stop yapping and find out,” Dave said, but his voice broke at the end when Alan slipped a finger into his arse.

He pushed it in deep, and added a second, and then he withdrew them both and slid on the condom. Dave fumbled with one hand for the nightstand and opened the drawer. He tossed a bottle of lube at Alan, who caught it and smirked at him but didn’t say a word. Alan poured a good amount into one hand and stroked himself, and then he was pressing into Dave, so slow, so perfect, that there was no pain, even though it’d been years since Dave had done this.

Alan stopped when he was fully inside, and he leaned down and kissed Dave, his mouth still sweet from the wine he’d had with dinner, and warm. He shifted and Dave groaned, and then Alan was fucking him, hard, deep strokes that hit him exactly right, and Dave clutched at Alan’s sides and his shoulders and his arse, because it felt so good, and he wanted so much more.

Alan moaned through his orgasm and buried his face in Dave’s shoulder, and Dave could feel his cock throbbing inside him. When Alan reached between them to fist Dave’s erection, Dave cried out, and he came after only a few strokes, his back and neck arched off the bed, and Alan whispering his name the entire time.

They lay there for a long while, Alan’s cock still deep in him. Dave stroked Alan’s hair, sifting his fingers through the damp strands at the base of his head, and Alan kissed the side of his neck. Finally Alan pulled out, and he tugged off the condom and tossed it aside, and then fell next to Dave on his back.

“I’m glad you came back,” Dave said.

“I’d be touched, except that’s probably just the orgasm talking,” Alan said.

He started to stand up, but Dave grabbed his arm at the wrist. Alan turned to him, and Dave said, “How long can you stay?”

“Until you get tired of me and kick me out,” Alan said. “Or Monday, when I have to go back to work. Whichever comes first.”

“I think you can call in sick Monday,” Dave said, pulling Alan back on top of him, and wrapping his arms around his waist to hold him there.

Alan smiled. “I think you’re a bad influence.”

 

+++

 

It was strange being on tour as a friend now, and not the enemy, even if he hadn’t quite been treated as the enemy after their first few rocky days together. Everyone but Martin assumed Alan was there to do more digging, and Alan let them think he was still on assignment, because it allowed him unfettered access and he didn’t have to answer any difficult questions. He already had enough of those to deal with in his own head.

It was a risky game he was playing, dating a man whom he’d been assigned to write about. Alan had never even been tempted to date a source before, and it’d been easy for him to avoid crossing the fine line between “friend” and “assignment.” He’d never let himself get too close. But if he was honest with himself – and Alan liked to always be honest with himself, because he didn’t see the point in lying – he’d been drawn to Dave almost from the first time they’d met. They’d argued, and Alan had found Dave rude and obnoxious and just as arrogant as every other rock star he’d ever met. But Dave had a natural charm that was hard to resist. And more than that, it had been a long time since Alan had let anyone get under his skin, and the very fact that Dave had pissed him off, well and truly, should have been an obvious sign that Dave wasn’t like any other assignment – or any other man Alan had met, in a long time. 

Alan didn’t really believe in things like chemistry or love at first sight, and he wasn’t about to believe he’d fallen in love with Dave Gahan, but at the same time, he couldn’t explain why he was willing to risk so much to be with Dave now. Why he’d been risking it all for so many weeks already. He’d done his job, and he’d done it well, but he’d never given so much of himself to a story before – he’d never made himself part of it.

It made him feel vulnerable and reckless, this strange connection he had with Dave. And he found he didn’t mind that as much as he would have expected.

“Break his heart and I’ll kill you.” Martin’s voice behind him made Alan smile. They were both standing in the wings, watching the end of Dave’s soundcheck.

Without turning around, Alan said, “Can you make it quick, at least? I don’t like pain.”

Martin laughed, loud enough to draw Dave’s attention to them. He gave them a bemused little smile before turning back to the empty auditorium without so much as a pause in the song he was running through.

Alan turned to face Martin and lifted an eyebrow. “What makes you think I’d even be able to break his heart?”

Martin watched Dave for a moment, a thoughtful look on his face. Unlike Dave, Martin didn’t carry his emotions out in the open. He always looked a little pensive, a little melancholy, except when he’d been drinking and was having an especially good time.

Finally Martin shrugged and looked back at Alan. “Nah, you’re right, he’s more likely to break yours.”

“And that’s fine by you, yeah?”

“As long as I don’t have to pick up the pieces, I don’t really care who gets hurt,” Martin said with another laugh. “Although if you drive him back to the heroin, I will definitely kill you, slowly.”

“No smack. Got it.”

They were both quiet for a moment, watching Dave, and Alan wondered what Martin saw – if he saw a friend or a performer, or both. He wondered if they’d ever been lovers.

“You think this is a terrible idea?” Alan said, eyes still on Dave.

“The worst,” Martin said. “But the best things always are.”

 

+++

 

Alan seemed to actually like the American Midwest. Dave knew he was a born-and-bred city lad, even if claimed to hate living in Los Angeles now. But he was staring out the car window now, a faint smile on his face as he watched the rows of corn whirl past so fast it made Dave feel dizzy and a little nauseated. When they’d stopped for lunch a while back, at some rural dive that, in all honesty, served pretty decent barbecued ribs, Alan had stepped out of the car and raised his face toward the sky and spread his arms wide, like he was basking in all that sunlight and clean air and the uninterrupted views that spread for miles and miles. He’d told Dave that he even liked the people – open and honest, friendly and real.

Of course, Dave suspected that Alan liked the Midwest even more because Dave obviously hated it.

“Oh, wow, look at that: more corn,” Dave said, glancing out his window.

“Reminds me of that movie, ‘Children of the Corn,’” Alan said with a grin.

Dave didn’t laugh. He glared at Alan and opened his copy of USA Today with a loud snap, burying his nose in the entertainment section. He knew Alan hated USA Today, and it really was a pretty rubbish newspaper, but on the road sometimes it was all he could find.

Dave was eager to be done with the Midwest leg of the tour, to get back to the big cities, and especially back to New York, the biggest and baddest of them all. He felt too exposed out here, and very small. All of that bright blue sky, the wide open land, all of those nice, rosy-faced people – it felt oppressive, like the weight of the world was bearing down on him and he could run all he want, but he had nowhere to go. He could hide in a city, right out in the open he could hide. And he liked the rhythm of a city, the hard pulse of it, and the crowds and the constant noise and the smell of it. He thrived off the energy of a city – he needed it.

Alan reached over and laid a hand on Dave’s knee, just squeezing it gently. Dave turned a page of the paper, and he didn’t look at Alan, but after a moment he rubbed a thumb over Alan’s knuckles, and then he tossed the paper onto the floor of the car.

“We should’ve just skipped Kansas City,” Dave said. “They call these the flyover states for a reason.”

“You sold out last night in Omaha,” Alan said reasonably.

“Yeah, I know,” Dave said, and he knew he sounded like a petulant brat. He yawned and closed his eyes, letting his head fall back on the seat.

They still had an hour to Kansas City, and Martin had cleverly arranged for just the two of them to share a car, arguing over Daryl’s insistence that Dave needed rest, not more interrogation. Alan seemed to be having rather a good time letting everyone think he was still out to get Dave, but they were both glad to have Martin on their side, all the same.

Alan leaned into Dave’s side, and Dave opened his eyes and glanced up at the front of the car. The driver was a regular on the tour, which meant he could probably be trusted. Dave hoped so, anyway. Alan turned toward Dave and kissed the side of his neck, up near his ear.

“It’d be cruel to ignore all your adoring fans in Kansas, and Nebraska, and Iowa,” Alan said quietly, nipping at Dave’s ear.

“Not going to Iowa,” Dave said, even as he moaned softly and tilted his head to the side.

“Oklahoma, then,” Alan said. “I know you’d hate to disappoint Oklahoma.”

Alan shifted a bit, folding one leg under himself so he could get closer to Dave, and shield him a bit from the driver. Dave looked up front again, but the driver was staring straight ahead, eyes on the road. There was a fair amount of traffic on the highway, which was a good thing for now.

Dave raised an eyebrow, and Alan moved his hand up from Dave’s knee toward his crotch, and he palmed Dave through his jeans. Dave held his gaze, even as his pulse started racing, and he opened his mouth a bit, his breaths coming faster. Alan’s eyes were bright, and challenging, and Dave licked his lips.

Alan kissed him on the mouth, sucking Dave’s lower lip between his teeth for a moment before sliding in with his tongue, and Dave let him in easily, sighing into Alan’s mouth. He laid a hand on Alan’s back, just holding him where he was, fingers digging into his skin through his shirt. Alan broke off their kiss and licked at Dave’s lips, and then rested his forehead on Dave’s and looked down at his lap, where Dave’s erection was obvious.

“Think that’ll hold ‘til Kansas City?” Alan said, pressing his hand into Dave’s cock.

“Fucking tease,” Dave said with a groan.

But he smiled when he looked up at Alan, and he wrapped a hand around the back of Alan’s neck and pulled him in for another kiss, slow and lazy. When they broke apart after a good long while, both of them breathless, Alan fell back in his seat and looked up at the driver again.

“Pull over at the next truck stop,” Alan said, sliding his hand back down Dave’s thigh. “I think Dave needs to stretch his legs a bit.”

“Whatever you say,” the driver said, and it was hard to be sure, but Dave thought he heard him smiling.

 

+++

 

Alan did call in sick Monday, and he supposed it wasn’t too much of a lie since they had, after all, spent the entire day in a hotel bed in Omaha.

They stayed up the night together, and it made Alan feel like some young fool in love – like they couldn’t bear to sleep because eventually they’d have to wake up, and it would all be over like some wonderful dream. It was all so stupid. They already had plans to meet up again in a week, when Dave would be in Chicago for two gigs there. It wasn’t as though this was the end of anything.

And still, Dave insisted on going with him to the airport at dawn on Tuesday, both of them bleary-eyed and dizzy with the need for sleep. The terminal was surprisingly busy for the time of day – apparently more people needed an early, mid-week flight from Omaha to Los Angeles than Alan would have expected – but they found a cold corner at the far end of the ticket counter where they could have some privacy, and no one seemed to be paying them any mind.

Dave tugged Alan’s jacket closed for him and planted his hands on Alan’s hips, thumbs ducking up under Alan’s shirt. Dave was so warm, his body pressed up against Alan’s, his thumbs sending little shocks of heat up Alan’s sides.

“Call when you get in,” Dave said, his mouth so close to Alan’s that Alan could feel his breath on his face.

“You’ll be asleep.”

“Call anyway,” Dave said.

He kissed Alan, gentle but urgent, and Alan felt a rush of something like love, or more than lust anyway. But it was all mixed up in the anxiety of the airport – the security announcements echoing overhead, a distant car alarm, the voice of a security worker instructing people to empty their pockets – and the bitterness at having to say goodbye.

Alan pulled away and said, “I’ll see you in a few days.” He traced a thumb along Dave’s jaw, against the stubble there. He kissed Dave, just pressing their lips together, Dave’s dry and warm against his, and then he pushed out of the corner and shouldered his overnight bag.

“See you in a bit, Al,” Dave said.

Alan waved, and when he walked through the security gate a while later and looked back, Dave was still standing there, hands stuffed in his pockets, sunglasses covering his bruised, sleepy eyes. He smiled at Alan and nodded, and Alan waved, and then a fan came up and said something to Dave, and Alan had to go to his gate, and the weekend was over.

It was difficult back at work, and not just because he was exhausted. Fletch gave him the once over when he arrived, late and unshaven and reeking of stale coffee, he was sure, but he didn’t ask a thing, other than when Alan would be getting him the Eastern European hip-hop story.

“Friday,” Alan said. “I’ll have it by Friday, I swear.”

Fletch just grunted in reply and gave Alan another long look. “You look like shit.”

“Well, I was sick, wasn’t I?”

“Funny thing, how you happened to get sick at the end of a long weekend,” Fletch said. “What’d you say was wrong again?”

“Food poisoning.”

“Right,” Fletch said. He glared at Alan some more, and finally rolled his eyes. “Well, serves you right with that street meat you’re always inhaling for lunch.”

“Yeah, I’d stay away from the kabob bloke down the block.”

Immediately he could have kicked himself. Obviously he’d have to avoid the kabob bloke for a while now, just to keep up appearances, and he really did have the best lamb gyro, even if his food cart was a bit dodgy and Alan had never once seen him wash his hands. Or wash anything, for that matter.

Fletch was grinning evilly at him now. Alan really hated it when Fletch was on to him.

“Friday,” Alan said, and he picked up his phone to start making calls. The first one was to Dave.

 

+++

 

Alan took a red-eye to Chicago, because it was the best he could do on fairly short notice, and with no guarantee that he’d make it out of work on time to catch an earlier flight. Fletch had given him a mock-up of his cover story the day before – just a printout of the article, with a few notes scrawled on it from the copy desk, and a headline that Alan had tried to talk Fletch into changing, although neither of them were very hopeful. Alan knew that Dave wouldn’t be happy about it – the big, bold letters, “Dave Gahan: Back from the Dead?” – but it could have been a lot worse.

Alan had tucked the pages into his satchel, although he wasn’t sure if he’d show the story to Dave in Chicago. He knew the article was fair, and he knew that Dave would recognize that. Still, it was nerve-wracking when the subject of an article read it for himself, and Alan always found himself waiting for the phone call of complaint, even when it never actually came. He’d gone over this story so much more carefully than anything else he’d written, determined to get every bit of it right, determined to do right by Dave and still tell the whole story – the truth of it, the good and the bad. And it was a good thing that there was more good than bad in Dave, at least now. Probably always, even in his worst days.

He slept fitfully on the flight, eager to see Dave but nervous all the same. He wondered if it would always be this way between them. If there’d always be some fine line they couldn’t cross – some small piece of Dave that wouldn’t open up to a journalist, no matter how well trusted, and some part of Alan that would always be afraid of knowing too much.

He had a brief layover in Detroit, and then a short hop to Midway and he landed in the mid-morning crush, even on a Saturday. It took him ages to get off the plane, and then to wend his way through the crowded terminal. He got stuck behind a family with two strollers and a screaming toddler, and before he could push his way past them he glanced at the newsstand nearby and saw the magazines and newspapers on display. And he felt an immediate rush of horror.

There was his cover story. There was Dave – gaunt and wild-eyed, hair long and stringy, his mouth twisted in a strange, haunted sort of smile that Alan had never seen before. The headline hadn’t been changed, and the answer seemed to be written on Dave’s face – no, this man wasn’t back from the dead. Far from it.

Alan picked up the magazine and flipped to his story, and he turned the pages, his stomach aching, his head spinning, anger rising like bile and making his face feel flushed. He threw the magazine back on top of the pile and shoved past the family. He needed to get out of the airport and see Dave. Now. Before it was too late.

He found him in baggage claim, standing alone at the edge of the space, sunglasses hiding his eyes. Alan walked straight to him and opened his mouth, praying like mad that Dave hadn’t already seen.

Dave said, “You lying piece of shit.” He held up a copy of Soundscape, rolled tightly in one fist, and shoved it into Alan’s chest. And then he turned and walked away.


	6. Chapter 6

Alan ran after Dave and caught him just outside the doors to baggage claim, and he grabbed for Dave’s arm but Dave shook him off and kept walking, and he got into the back of a waiting car and drove off without looking back. Alan stood where he was, just watching the car fight through traffic, as the crowds bumped and pushed around him. A man in a suit ran over Alan’s foot with his rolling luggage and swore at him to get the fuck out of the way, and Alan muttered an apology and stumbled over to a bench, where a tense-looking woman was smoking a cigarette. He dropped his carryon bag between his feet and threw the magazine on the bench beside him, and he got out his mobile to call Dave.

The call went straight to voicemail, but Alan tried him two more times before he finally left a clipped message that wasn’t quite begging, but was probably close enough. He called Martin then, but he wasn’t answering either. And he called Fletch last.

“What the fuck happened?” Alan said as soon as Fletch picked up.

“It’s six-fucking-thirty, Wilder,” Fletch said. Alan heard him mutter something, probably to his wife.

“Did you know about this? Was it your fucking idea?”

“You know it wasn’t,” Fletch said, his voice tight and tired. “And no, I didn’t know about it. Not until last night.”

Alan slumped over on the bench, holding his forehead in one hand and staring at a wad of gum on the ground. “This is fucked up, boss.”

“I know.”

Alan apologized for waking him up, and then he got off the phone and called Dave two more times, and Martin once. He made sure his phone was on its loudest setting and he tucked it into his jacket pocket, and then he picked up the magazine and turned to his story.

The article itself was unchanged from the last version Alan had seen. In fact, the headline was milder, if stupid and cliché – it simply read “On the Road Again” – and the main photo was a simple, even classy portrait of Dave, looking healthy and relaxed. It was the rest of the package that was an utter disaster. Inserted into Alan’s story were what seemed to be every picture taken of Dave during his most drug-addled years – Dave laughing crazily with a drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other, Dave wide-eyed and obviously high, Dave trying to hide behind a newspaper as he was wheeled out of hospital the day after his first overdose. There was even a photo of various drug paraphernalia that certainly had never belonged to Dave.

And there were photos of Jack, and of Dave’s ex-wife. There was a short story that ran alongside Alan’s, that was little more than a bullet-point list of Dave’s various mishaps over the years – all of it recycled, and reported a thousand times over. On the next page was another list, of all the people Dave had let down over the years. Someone had taken a quote from Martin out of Alan’s own story, and used it out of context to suggest that Martin no longer trusted Dave.

The last page was the worst – it was nothing but a compilation of recent anecdotes about Dave’s behavior on the road that were obviously pure rumor, if not out-right lies, and certainly not based on any reality Alan had seen. Gossip columnists reported second-hand information about Dave drinking again, and taking barely legal girls back to his hotel room. They suggested Dave was on the verge of a nervous breakdown, or addicted to painkillers, or that he’d joined a cult. There was even some kind of addiction psychiatrist placing odds on the chances of Dave relapsing.

It was all rubbish, and Alan had never been more humiliated to have his name attached to an article. He’d always known that the magazine could lean toward the trashy sometimes, and he didn’t approve of the tacky, gossipy tone of some of the stories, but he’d always written to his own moral, professional code, and he’d known that Fletch shared that devotion. Now he felt used, and foolish. He should have expected that the editors on the top floors wouldn’t settle for a fair piece of journalism that simply told the truth – they’d want something that guaranteed sales.

Alan took out his mobile to make sure it was turned on, and he glanced at the time. He’d already been sitting here for an hour, and it dawned on him that he had no clue what to do now. He didn’t know where Dave was staying, and if even Martin wasn’t answering his calls, he wasn’t sure how to find out. He didn’t know anyone in Chicago, and if Dave didn’t want to see him, there wasn’t much point in staying here anyway. But if there was any chance he could see Dave, talk to him face to face, he couldn’t leave just yet.

For now, he’d have to just keep calling.

 

+++

 

Dave let himself into his hotel room and finally turned on his mobile, and he felt the anger rise in his chest again when he saw the 11 missed phone calls, and he deleted the voicemail message without even listening to it. Then he threw the phone across the room, where it hit the wall so hard that it left a dent in the plaster.

Alan fucking Wilder had never been anything more or less than any other journalist Dave had ever met. He’d been such an idiot, to let himself believe otherwise, when he knew better – he fucking knew better – than to trust anyone who made a career out of hurting others, digging up their deepest secrets and embellishing them, and putting them all on display for entertainment. Even if Alan had been the nicest, most sincere journalist in the world – which he clearly wasn’t, Dave now knew – at the end of the day, he was still a man who made a living off of other people’s mistakes and tragedies.

They’d put a picture of Jack in the story. Dave could handle the rumors and the lies, and the ugly photos from his own past, which he knew were always going to haunt him. But to drag his kid into the story was inexcusable. It was the worst kind of betrayal, and more bitter still because Dave couldn’t help but feel like he’d allowed it to happen. He’d let Alan in, first as a journalist, and a friend, and then as something else – something he’d been looking forward to defining and exploring.

There was a knock on his door, and Dave thought about just ignoring it, or yelling at the person to go the fuck away. But then he heard Martin’s voice calling his name, and he sighed and ran a hand through his hair and opened the door.

“I’m not in the mood, Mart,” he said, but he left the door open as he turned away.

Dave sat heavily on the unmade bed and held his head in his hands. He felt Martin sit next to him, and a moment later, he saw Martin slide his own mobile into Dave’s lap.

“He’s been calling every 15 minutes,” Martin said. “He’s due in five.”

Martin squeezed Dave’s shoulder, and then he got up and left.

Dave stared at the phone, half convinced that he’d throw Mart’s into the wall too if it started ringing and Wilder’s name came up. But when it vibrated five minutes later, Dave jerked in surprise. And when he looked down and saw Alan’s name, he felt a painful, shocking tug in his stomach, and he felt like his heart had stopped beating and he couldn’t breathe, and he knew he had to answer it.

“Yeah.”

There was silence, and Dave could hear traffic sounds in the background, and then a tentative, “Dave?”

Dave nodded and said, “What do you want?”

“Dave, look, where are you? We need to talk.”

“We don’t have anything to talk about,” Dave said.

“You have to listen-”

“I don’t have to do shit,” Dave said. He got up from the bed, pacing toward the other side of the room, fury boiling in him like a drug, familiar and frightening. “What was it you said, that first day on the tour? ‘Trust me’? ‘I’m not out to get you’? What a load of shit.”

He heard Alan take a deep breath. “I didn’t betray you, Dave. I’m sorry, so fucking sorry for how it all turned out. But it wasn’t my fault. You have to believe me.”

“There you go again, telling me what I have to do,” Dave said. “Well you know what? I trusted you once, and look where that got me.”

“I’m not the bloody bad guy here,” Alan said, the frustration obvious in his voice.

“Yeah? Well that’s not the way it looks from here.”

“It’s the stupid fucking editors. I swear, I had no idea what they’d planned. I’d never have let this happen if I’d known,” Alan said. “Dave, please, listen to me.”

“No,” Dave said. “You got your story. We’re done, Wilder.”

He hung up, and before Alan could call again, he dropped the phone in a glass of water by the bed. And after a moment, he threw that, too, against the wall.

 

+++

 

Alan flew back to Los Angeles that same afternoon. It was a miserable flight, not least of which because it cost him an extra $200 to switch his ticket, and because his sudden change in plans must have triggered some sort of security alert, which meant he spent close to an hour enduring a very thorough check of his baggage and his person.

There’d been no reason to stay in Chicago. Dave had turned off both his mobile and Martin’s, and he was clearly furious, and had no intention of talking to Alan again. And as much as Alan understood that, he couldn’t deny a swell of anger of his own – that Dave would blame him so quickly, that he’d refuse to listen. That he’d obviously thought so little of Alan all along that it took one misstep – yes, one giant misstep, even if it really wasn’t Alan’s fault – to wash away whatever friendship had developed between them. Dave almost definitely thought that Alan had intended to use him all along, and the very idea of that was sickening to Alan, both as a friend and as a journalist.

He started drinking as soon as security spit him out, in an airport bar near his gate. He kept drinking on the flight, and he left his car at the airport and took a taxi back to his home in Manhattan Beach. It was somehow shocking to see that his apartment was unchanged – like he expected it to feel different, look different, after everything that had happened, even if he’d been gone less than a day.

And really, what had he even lost? Alan had written stories that had disappointed him, either through his own mistakes or shortcomings or someone above him screwing up. And he’d certainly been through bad breakups before – but always after months, even years of commitment and passion and even love. Never after what basically amounted to a month-long assignment.

He wondered if this was what it felt like to grow old and lonely, and he grabbed two beers from the refrigerator and set them both on the coffee table, and he turned on the television and sank into the couch. He flipped through the stations until he stopped out of habit more than anything on one of the music channels. There was a news report, and the announcer reported that Dave’s people had released a single of his cover of Alan’s song. Not that Alan’s name was attached to it, thank God, but Martin was right – he’d probably get some decent residuals out of it.

“Cheers,” Alan said, tipping his open beer at the television. “Way to stay in the game, Wilder.”

Alan passed out on his couch, three empty cans of beer on the table and still wearing his traveling clothes – arse-hugging jeans he’d thought Dave would admire, and a navy shirt that an ex had once told him made his eyes look blue. He woke up horribly hungover, his skin gritty and too warm, and for a few hours he couldn’t bring himself to move. When hunger finally got the better of him he made himself a bowl of Cheerios, and once he was up, he managed a shower and a lonely cigarette, sitting on the steps in front of his building, watching the people walk by in the hazy, late afternoon sun.

He thought about calling Dave, but he didn’t think he could take the silence if his calls went straight to voicemail again. And anyway, he’d already given Dave everything he had – if Dave chose not to believe him, if Dave didn’t want to believe, there wasn’t anything else Alan could do. It wasn’t fucking fair that Alan was taking the blame, but then again, Alan had always been the enemy, and Dave had no one else to lay this disaster on.

Alan went inside after watching the sun set, bold and violent in the L.A. smog. He sat at his computer and sent out a few emails, and then he opened an old document that he hadn’t looked at in months.

If there was one thing Alan had learned over the years – in a career that spanned the God-awful music industry from both sides, and that had never really done him a lot of good – it was that he could always follow his gut. And right now, for reasons he didn’t care to explore, his gut was telling him, finally, to write.

His mind had always been clearest in the dark, and right now, sitting in an apartment still washed in the fading oranges and pinks and reds of a beautiful autumn day, he felt pretty damn dark indeed. He felt like he’d lost something important, and irretrievable.

 

+++

 

They played two sellout gigs in Chicago, and then they had a day off, and Martin dragged Dave to the lake first, and then to a shop to buy new phones.

“Don’t we have people to buy these things for us?” Dave said, as Martin picked up a BlackBerry and fumbled with the buttons.

“We do, but Daryl’s not the one who broke mine.”

Dave rolled his eyes and leaned against one of the display cabinets. “What’s the point of being a celebrity if you can’t throw a tantrum and break a few mobiles once in a while?”

“You’re right. I feel very bad for you,” Martin said with a complete lack of sincerity. “I want an iPhone.”

The Apple store was several blocks away, but Martin made them walk, claiming that the sun might help lift Dave’s mood. Dave didn’t particularly want to improve his mood – he was perfectly happy to keep sulking for a while yet – and anyway, Mart’s plan backfired when a young fan came up to Dave to ask for his autograph. And then pulled out a copy of Wilder’s article for him to sign.

“Here, he’ll sign this instead,” Martin said, and as if by magic he revealed from his jacket pocket a copy of the new single, with the live recording of Alan’s song. Dave didn’t particularly want to sign that either, but he wasn’t about to touch that article, and he didn’t think it’d go over well to tell the brat to get lost.

All in all, it wasn’t a terrible day, and Dave had to admit that it was nice to feel the sun on his face again. He’d spent the entire weekend locked up in his hotel room when he wasn’t on stage. He wouldn’t go so far as to say he’d wanted a drink, or anything else; temptation wasn’t so much the problem anymore. What Dave feared most wasn’t the drugs, it was the crash, and knowing he had no easy way to fight it or even cushion it. Alan’s betrayal, and their fight, and everything that had happened between them, good and bad, was like a weight on his chest, and there’d been times over the weekend when he’d literally had trouble breathing, when he’d honestly feared that his heart was beating too fast and too hard. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so bad, and with nothing to soothe him, to take away the pain of it. Performing had been his only escape.

At least he had Martin. Dave never underestimated Martin, and he never took his friendship for granted. Martin had always been the only one he could turn to at his worst – he’d been Dave’s rock during the dark days after rehab, when he’d been so sure that he’d never make music again, that he’d never fully recover from the damage he’d done to his body and soul. Now, even as he felt sick and hurt from Alan’s betrayal, and the heavy sense of loss that he wasn’t sure he could justify, Martin made him feel safe. Like someone was on his side.

“You should call him,” Mart said.

Dave sighed. Perhaps Martin wasn’t always on his side.

“I told you, I’m done with him,” Dave said. “I should’ve been done with him the first time I met him. It was a mistake to ever let him come on the tour.”

“He said it wasn’t his fault,” Martin said.

Dave had told Martin everything about his last conversation with Alan, and Martin had been a complete bastard and tried to defend Alan. “Just for argument’s sake,” Mart had said, “what if Alan is really a good bloke. He’s probably really upset about what happened.”

“He’s a fucking back-stabbing arsehole, is what he is,” Dave had said.

But if he was honest, he actually believed Alan – he believed that Alan hadn’t meant for the story to turn out that way, and he believed that it hadn’t been Alan’s fault. But in the end, Dave knew it had always been a mistake to trust a journalist, and it didn’t matter if Alan was to blame or not, the end result was the same. He’d been burned too many times in the past, he’d exposed too much of himself to the wrong people, he hadn’t been careful enough. He owed it to his family and friends to be cautious, and he owed it to himself. Better to cut his losses now, and lose Alan, before he was in even deeper and he made himself even more vulnerable.

Dave stared out over the sparkling blue water of the lake, which looked so cold and so inviting, all at once. “Just drop it, Mart. Just let it go,” he said. Because Dave was trying to let it go. He had to.

 

+++

 

Alan knocked on the glass door of Fletch’s office and opened it when Fletch waved him in. He felt anxious and itchy, and he thought Fletch probably sensed that, by the frown on his face and that familiar deep crease in his forehead. Or maybe he was just noticing how obvious it was that Alan hadn’t slept well the past few nights. That morning in his flat, he’d stared at his face in the bathroom mirror, and he’d known that he wouldn’t be able to disguise the shadows under his eyes, and the pastiness in his cheeks. Even his hair had been dull and depressed, and he hadn’t been able to muster the energy to do anything about it. He’d tried out a smile, but it had just made him looked pained and even more miserable, if that was possible.

“If you’re here to tell me that the Neko Case profile isn’t coming through, you can just walk right back out now,” Fletch said, leaning back in his desk chair, which creaked under his weight.

“You’ll have it by Friday,” Alan said. He hadn’t actually started the story yet, but he was confident he’d get it.

Alan walked in and sat in the straight-backed chair on the other side of the desk, and Fletch sat forward again, and he put down the stack of papers he’d been reading and took off his glasses.

“I’m quitting,” Alan said. 

Fletch closed his eyes for a moment, and the frown line creased even further. He swept a hand over his eyes and squeezed the bridge of his nose, and then he looked carefully at Alan.

“Is this because of the Gahan fuckup? Don’t be an idiot, Wilder. That’s a shitty thing to quit over.”

Alan shook his head and said, “It’s not. Well, not entirely.”

“If you’re trying to get a raise-”

Alan laughed heartily enough to stop Fletch mid-sentence. “I’m not that stupid, boss.”

“You know we’d like to give you all more money, it’s just with the economy and all, and advertising down, and all that free shit on the internet-”

“I know,” Alan said. “It’s not the money. I knew when I was getting into this that the pay was crap.”

“What is it then? You got another job?”

“No, I’m quitting the industry. The whole thing,” Alan said. He shrugged and stared at his hands in his lap. “I just don’t think I’m cut out for this.”

“So it is about Gahan,” Fletch said, somehow sounding both pleased with himself and annoyed with Alan all at once.

“I can’t do that again,” Alan said. “I can’t let someone who trusts me get hurt like that. I’m not like the rest of you.”

Fletch’s head popped up at that, and he narrowed his eyes in a way that instantly made Alan nervous. Even if this man wasn’t his boss for much longer, his anger was still something to be reckoned with.

“Oh, I get it,” Fletch said. “You think you’re better than the lot of us, right? Higher standards? Better morals and all that? You’re disgusted by what we do now?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“And what, you think Dave Gahan is all about truth and honor? Everyone playing nice and being good to each other?”

“I definitely didn’t say that,” Alan said.

“Look, Alan, I don’t know what happened between you and Gahan on the tour, and I don’t bloody want to know, either. But we are not the enemy – I’m not your fucking enemy, or Gahan’s.”

“I know-”

“Shut up and listen,” Fletch said. “Maybe we screwed up that fucking Gahan piece, but your story was good, and you’re bloody good at your job, and you know how much it pains me to say that. If you’re not happy here, fine. But don’t give me this bullshit about not being cut out for the job. You’re a ruthless bastard, just like the rest of us, and you know it. Take some fucking pride in it.”

Alan sat in stunned silence, his mouth hanging open. He blinked dumbly at Fletch, whose face was red, with little dots of perspiration along the hairline. He wondered if Fletch was right, and then he thought about how pleased he felt now, hearing such high praise from an editor he was loathe to admit he admired. And he decided that it was true, what Fletch said – and it also didn’t matter.

Fletch opened a desk drawer and pulled out a handkerchief, and wiped off his face. Then he opened another drawer and took out a large bottle of Glenlivet and two glasses, and poured them each a healthy shot of scotch.

Alan took his with a nod, and he sipped at it, closing his eyes at the smooth, peppery slip of it down his throat. “Thanks, boss,” he said, and Fletch nodded, and for a while they drank in silence.

“So really, what are you going to do now, Wilder?”

“Really, I don’t know,” Alan said. “I’ve got this book I’ve been working on. I guess I’ll try to get some job to pay the bills and maybe give fiction a try.”

“Fiction? Like, a novel?”

Alan laughed at the look of horror on Fletch’s face. Fletch ate, drank, slept and pissed the news – he’d probably never even read an entire novel.

“Yeah, a novel.”

“Fuck. Such a bloody waste,” Fletch said, even as he went digging through his desk again.

He pulled out a Rolodex – Alan couldn’t even remember the last time he’d seen one of those – and he flipped through the index cards. He stopped at one and plucked it out, and handed it across the desk to Alan.

“Gareth Jones?”

“He’s an editor. A fiction editor,” Fletch said, his lip curling. “He’s in London.”

Alan raised an eyebrow. “You know fiction editors?”

“Just the one,” Fletch said, “and you’ll notice he didn’t make it into the most current phone book, so to speak. But he’s an old mate from school and from what I gather he does all right in book publishing.”

“And you want me to call him?”

“For fuck’s sake, Wilder, when did you get so stupid?” Fletch said, and he made a move to take back the card.

Alan snatched it back and he studied the name and number, written in Fletch’s neat, straight print. “What makes you think my fiction’s any good?”

“It’s fiction, so I’m sure it’s terrible,” Fletch said. “But I reckon you’re a decent writer. Maybe Gareth will find something publishable in you. Now get the hell out of my office. I take it we’ve got two weeks from you yet.”

Alan smiled at Gareth’s name, and then he looked up and grinned at Fletch, and saluted him with the index card. “I expect you’ll be abusing the hell out of me.”

“Naturally. Now seriously, that profile isn’t going to write itself.”

Alan went back to his desk, and he tucked the note card into his wallet, deciding he’d wait until the next day, or later in the week, to call the book editor.

He’d thought that quitting would be difficult, and he supposed he should have been a little bit hurt that Fletch hadn’t begged him to stay, but then, that wasn’t really Fletch’s style, and the man had offered him scotch, which was highly unusual and probably a major compliment. Alan felt oddly at peace with his decision, though, and he thought that perhaps he’d been mulling it over for a long time, in the back of his mind, and during the countless interviews when he’d been forced to push a little too hard, or write something he’d rather not.

He glanced across his desk at the stack of mail left at the edge of his cubicle, and the newest issue of the magazine on top. Dave’s pale, sick face took up the entire cover, and the lifeless eyes stared off into space. Alan picked up the magazine and took a good look at the photograph. He wondered if this Dave even existed anymore; it was so hard to reconcile him with the man Alan had come to know so well.

He set down the magazine and stared out the window beside his desk, which looked out on miles of sunlit office buildings and freeways and occasionally, on days when there wasn’t much smog, the San Gabriel Mountains. He could see the mountains today, through the haze. He wondered where Dave was, and he could have looked him up – checked his tour schedule online, and tracked him down – but that wouldn’t give him the information he needed. It’d just be some city, any city, and certainly some place Alan couldn’t get to. Where he wasn’t wanted, or allowed.

Alan turned on his computer, and he checked his voicemail messages and he dumped the magazine in the recycling bin, and he knew, without a doubt, that he’d made the right decision. He couldn’t stay here anymore.


	7. Chapter 7

They finished the tour with a sold-out gig in New York. Dave was so pumped up on adrenalin he couldn’t see straight, couldn’t hear his own voice, couldn’t feel his hands or his face or much of anything at all. He felt drunk with it, and wild and reckless, and dangerous in a way that he’d thought was long in his past. He finished his encore, the band playing on behind him, and he stood at the edge of the stage, hands over his eyes to shield them from the spotlight, staring out over the crowd – over his crowd – and thinking he could just stop here. Just stay in this spot, or better even, just slip over the edge, fall into the crowd and disappear into it, let himself be swallowed up by it, because there was nothing better. Nothing more important than this moment, right here.

And then he lowered his head, sweat dripping into his eyes, his whole body shaking. He said goodnight and thank you, his voice breaking badly, and he waved and he walked away. There’d be more tours – they left for Europe in a month – and he needed to sleep now. He needed to come down.

Martin met him as he headed off stage and without a word he wrapped an arm around Dave’s waist and pulled him close, and he waved at the crowd behind Dave’s back. Dave allowed Martin to take over for now and steer him through the throngs of people in the wings, and through the strangely quiet corridors back to Dave’s dressing room. Dave’s ears rang in the silence, and it felt like his own thoughts were echoing badly inside his skull. He always hated the quiet after a gig, when he felt so wasted, like there was nothing left of himself.

How many times had someone done this for him over the years – taken control of his life, even temporarily, and helped guide him back to a safe place? How many times had he let them? He’d come to rely on it, when he felt exhausted and used up by a performance, or by any number of setbacks in his life. The hardest part about getting sober hadn’t been the weeks in rehab, or the months after, when he’d wanted so badly to give up. The hardest thing in the world had been realizing he was all alone, and if he wanted to live, he was going to have to do it for himself. There’d finally been no one left who could help him.

Dave took a long shower, staying under the too-hot spray until he heard someone pounding on his dressing room door. Ordinarily he avoided the after-show parties, especially the ones with fans, and ordinarily Dan and Daryl and Mart let him. But this would be his last public night in the States for a while, and he’d have to play nice. Dave yelled at whoever was outside that he’d be ready when he was fucking well ready, and he put on a smart suit and slicked back his wet hair, and he wiped away the last of his stage makeup with a rough towel. He thought he looked normal enough – tired and pale, maybe even ill, but that was what passed for normal at the end of any tour.

The last time he’d agreed to meet with fans and sign autographs had been weeks ago – in Seattle, he thought. When Alan had been along. Alan had stayed by Dave’s side the entire time, just standing quietly behind Dave’s shoulder, and even then his presence had been oddly reassuring. Dave had felt him laugh from time to time, soft chuckles that were barely louder than sighs, usually when fans asked him to sign body parts.

After the fifth such request there’d been a brief lull while a group of girls tried to get their cameras sorted out, and Alan had leaned in close to Dave, his breath warm on Dave’s neck, and said, “That bird had more hair on her chest than Martin.”

“Most of them do,” Dave had said, smiling as the girls gathered on either side of him. A bodyguard had snapped a picture, and Dave had blinked away the flash. He’d signed autographs for all of them – on the CD cases, thankfully – and he’d kissed one girl on the cheek, because she’d asked.

Alan had kept up a running commentary on the fans after that, poking gentle fun at them, never being cruel or inappropriate, but having a good laugh. And Dave had laughed with him, until it had occurred to him that Alan might just be setting him up – might be trying to get Dave to play along too, so he could write in his story how little respect Dave had for his fans. How he mocked them behind their backs.

Just then, Alan had pressed in close to him again. “Relax,” he’d said, “I don’t even have my notebook.” Dave had turned and looked over his shoulder, and Alan had lifted both hands, proving they were empty.

And Dave had believed him. Even now, after everything, he found himself missing Alan standing at his back. Alan who had said that same night, after they’d been approached by a girl who’d been so nervous her hands were visibly shaking and she’d dropped her pen three times before setting it on the table, that he thought he finally understood the power of Dave Gahan.

“What’s that?” Dave had said, yawning widely and feeling pretty damned powerless.

Alan had laughed and said, “You like them. I mean, you actually respect them.”

“For a while they were all I had,” Dave had said simply. “There weren’t a lot of people who stuck by my side. But the fans did. How incredible is that?”

Dave wondered if that quote had made it into the story.

 

+++

 

Dave slept in his own bed that night, and he stayed there until past noon, feeling depressed and lonely. He jerked himself off but that just made him feel irritable and even more alone, so he forced himself up and put on his trainers and went for a run in Central Park. He was out of running shape and he quit after only four miles and walked the last few blocks back to his home, where he found Martin sitting on the low wall out front. Dave stopped in front of him and grinned, feeling instantly brighter, and he wiped his face off on the bottom of his shirt.

“Lose your key?” Dave said. He looked over at the doorman. “Mario would’ve let you in.”

Martin held up his key to Dave’s building and shrugged. “Reckoned you’d be back soon enough, and it’s a nice day. Good to see daylight for once.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” Dave said, but he nodded toward the front door. “C’mon, let’s go on up. You can cook me breakfast while I take a shower.”

Martin glanced at his watch. “It’s 2:30.”

“Never too late for pancakes,” Dave said, slinging an arm around Mart’s shoulders.

He’d meant it as a joke, but when Dave got out of the shower, changed into sweat pants and a loose T-shirt, Martin had a plate of eggs and toast waiting for him in the kitchen. It wasn’t pancakes, but it was the closest thing Dave had seen to a real breakfast in weeks.

“You know how to scramble eggs?” Dave said. He scooped up a bite on his fork and sniffed it carefully before shoving it in his mouth.

“Those are fried, actually,” Martin said.

“And delicious,” Dave said with a mouth full of egg. “When’d you learn how to cook?”

“I’m not sure that frying eggs counts as cooking,” Martin said. “Why do you have eggs in your refrigerator if you don’t know how to use them?”

Dave shrugged and took another big bite. “Never know when someone’s coming over to make me breakfast, do I?”

“I’m not even going to ask how old these eggs are, then.”

They both cleaned their plates, so Dave assumed the eggs weren’t too old, and after he carried them into the kitchen he joined Mart in the living room, falling next to him on the leather sofa. Martin was holding a framed picture of Jack in one hand, and he looked up at Dave, and back at the photo, before setting it back on the coffee table.

“He’s looking more like you all the time.”

“Lucky kid,” Dave said with a grin.

Martin chuckled and shook his head, and his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. Dave felt a sudden uneasiness roll over him, like nerves before a gig. It was unusual enough for Martin to visit his home unannounced – stranger still that he’d shown up the day after they wrapped up a tour. Usually they took some time off from each other, even if it was just a week or so. And he was pretty sure Mart had never made him breakfast before.

And sitting on the couch now, Martin studying his hands and fidgeting with the expensive watch on his wrist, Dave realized he was acting odd still, like he was feeling shy, or unsure of himself. The last time he’d behaved this way had been just after Dave got out of rehab, when no one had seemed to know how to act around him. It’d been months before Martin seemed comfortable around him again.

Martin shifted on the couch, the leather creaking under his legs, and he turned to face Dave. “I’m leaving,” he said.

Dave frowned at him. “Leaving what? The country? My flat? Las Vegas?”

“The band,” Martin said. He licked his lips, and he looked Dave in the eye. “I’m leaving the band.”

Dave stopped breathing. He swore his heart stopped beating. “You’re leaving me?”

Martin closed his eyes and nodded once, and then he shook his head. “I’d never leave you, Dave. You know that. But I need to do my own thing now. Just for a while. Just one album.”

“When?”

“After the tour,” Mart said. “After Europe. I’m moving to California. Dave-”

“No,” Dave said. “No, don’t. I get it. Fuck. You’re leaving?”

He wanted to scream. The rage bubbled up in his chest, and a howl of protest and anger and grief, and who knew what else, threatened to burst out of him. He sealed his mouth against it, and finally he buried his face in his hands. He felt Martin’s hand on his back, warm and comforting and he wanted so badly to throw him off, to yell at him to get the fuck away, or to turn to him and hold him close and beg him to stay.

Some days it felt like Martin was all he had. He knew it wasn’t true, and even if it had been, it wasn’t fair to Martin to make him stay. He’d probably stayed too long already.

“Dave-”

“Good for you, mate,” Dave said. He looked up at Martin, and he knew both of their eyes were a little too bright. He pulled Martin into a hug, and he said into his shoulder, “You’re going to be great. World famous, Mart.”

When they broke apart after a while, Martin said seriously, “I can give you a few more songs. Just to get you started on the next album.”

“Nah, you keep ‘em,” Dave said. They're yours. Make them your own.”

“I don’t want to leave you in the lurch,” Martin said.

Dave shrugged. “I’ll be all right. Probably do me some good to write my own stuff, yeah? Flex some creative muscles?”

“Yeah, I reckon it would,” Martin said. He’d been bugging Dave to write for years, and Dave couldn’t help but wonder now if Martin had been itching to break out on his own all that time.

“Why now? What brought this on?” Dave said.

“Actually, that’s all on you. And Alan,” Martin said.

Dave frowned at him. “How’s that?”

“Well, if you’d never tried to off yourself and ended up in rehab, I’d never have done my solo tour and realized how much I enjoyed doing my own thing,” Martin said.

“Great, so my being a junkie made you want to be a rock star,” Dave said with a laugh. “And what about Alan? What’d he do?”

“He made you happy.”

Dave stopped laughing and glared at Martin instead. “Are you insane? That bastard tried to ruin my life.”

“Dave, did you even read the article?”

“Of course I didn’t. It was rubbish.”

Martin just shook his head and sighed. “Read it,” he said. “Trust me.”

“Whatever, you just want to pass me on to the next bloke, so someone else can take care of poor old former junkie Dave.” Martin just stared at him. “Er, yeah. That was a low blow. Sorry, mate.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Martin said.

“You’re moving to bloody California! And leaving the bloody band!”

“I mean I’m still your friend, you wanker.”

“I know what you mean,” Dave said. He stared at his hands in his lap. “Is it too late to beg you to stay?”

“No,” Mart said, “but please don’t try.”

Dave smiled, and he looked up at Martin. “You’re right,” he said.

Martin just lifted an eyebrow.

“He did make me happy,” Dave said. “But since when is that enough?”

Martin patted him on the back and sat back, stretching his arms along the back of the couch. “Read the bloody article,” he said, and he smirked in a really infuriating way.

 

+++

 

Martin left not much later, and Dave felt sick and bruised, like he’d been punched in the gut. He was happy for Martin – genuinely happy – and if he was honest, he could have seen this coming months ago, maybe even years. He’d been lucky to have Martin for as long as he had. And if his career completely fell apart without Martin writing for him, well, Dave had done all right to this point, and he hadn’t blown all of his savings on heroin. He still had plenty to live on, and comfortably so.

But he didn’t want to think about a future without music, and performing. It was that fear – of failing, and of letting down everyone he knew, and most of all himself – that had driven him to addiction in the first place. Still, it wouldn’t help to dwell on such things now. He had years ahead of him to determine just how great a failure he’d be on his own. Better now to focus on his more immediate shortcomings.

Dave got a Coke from the kitchen and wandered into his office, where two months worth of mail were stacked into even piles, separated by week. He rifled through the most recent piles and quickly found the magazine he wanted. Just looking at his own face on the cover made him feel nauseated and angry, so he set it face down on the desk before sitting in his heavy office chair. He rarely used this space – it still smelled faintly of fresh paint and new furniture. He wasn’t even sure why he had an office, except as a place to store mail that he rarely read anyway.

Dave took a long drink of soda before putting down the can and picking up the magazine. He was nervous as he turned the pages to get to the article, his palms sweaty, his fingers shaking. He frowned when he saw Wilder’s name, but he sat back in his chair, and he read.

Dave Gahan is singing my song.

I’m in the wings at the Pepsi Center in Denver, and there are 20,000 fans screaming at Gahan, arms stretched out to him, begging for more. Literally, begging. I can hear their individual voices, and I’m smiling to myself, and reaching for the notebook I carry in my back pocket, when I recognize the lyrics to my own song.

It’s a life-changing moment for me, not least because this one performance will eventually bring me a tidy royalties check. But in the moment, standing beyond the curtains, Gahan’s face in profile under the stage lights, I’m in awe. (Later, I’ll be furious, for reasons that aren’t worth explaining now, and that I’ll eventually lay on Gahan himself.) He’s taken a trite pop song and he’s transformed it. In one night – in one breath – Gahan has made this his song. He owns it now, and probably forever.

That’s the funny thing about Gahan. By all rights he should be dead – actually did die, for a few minutes – or at the very least, lost to obscurity. Or less kindly, he should be on his farewell pity tour, or making a last, desperate grab for fame on some reality show, maybe involving dancing or pastry-making. Instead he’s here – in Denver, in Salt Lake, in Chicago, in Los Angeles – and he’s shockingly, infuriatingly good. Great, even. Powerful and warm, his voice strong, his grin infectious, his hip-swaying deliriously seductive. Gahan winks and the crowd cheers – he shakes his ass, and the swell of response is deafening.

Gahan is not all there yet. He struggles with his sobriety, although he’s less inclined to talk about it now than he once was. He has few friends he trusts, and on the road, off stage, he keeps to himself mostly. But when he’s on stage, he’s laid bare. He’s naked (though perhaps not as literally as some fans would like) and defenseless. He’s raw and vulnerable, and so damn good that it’s impossible to believe that this man won’t survive.

Dave Gahan makes you want to be a believer.

The article was long, and it took Dave nearly an hour to read it, and when he was done he went back and read it again. Alan had done it. He’d done what he said he would do. He’d understood, all along. He’d told the truth.

Dave felt like the biggest arsehole in the world.

He checked the time on his mobile and he called Alan’s number, which was still trapped in his memory even after he’d tried so hard to forget it. The number was dead, though, so Dave flipped to the front of the magazine and found the office number there, and after a series of hand-offs he ended up on the phone with some kid who answered with a curt, “Newsroom.”

“I need to talk to Alan Wilder.”

“Wilder? He doesn’t work here.”

Dave’s stomach dropped. “What? Since when?”

“I don’t know, like, a week ago?” the kid said, sounding bored. “He just quit one day. What a bastard, you know? Journalism jobs aren’t easy to come by and this dude quits, and he doesn’t even have another job lined up.”

“Where’d he go?” Dave said.

“I just told you, I don’t know,” the kid said. “I’m the intern and no one tells me anything anyway.”

“Why’d he quit?”

“Who knows? Gossip is that he left over the Dave Gahan story, the one on the cover a couple weeks ago? I heard he wasn’t too happy with how it came out. Can’t say I blame him. What a snow job, right?”

“Yeah,” Dave said, swallowing thickly. He ran a hand through his hair, thinking ahead, wondering where Alan might have gone. “You really don’t know where he is?”

The kid sighed. “Look, mister, you want to talk to someone else or not?”

“No,” Dave said, and then he sat up in his chair, dropping the magazine to the floor. “Actually, yeah. Let me talk to his boss. Give me Fletch.”

 

+++

 

Alan turned his back to the piano and yawned widely as Francis started in on his eighth attempt at “Red River Valley.” Francis banged on the keys as though they’d insulted him personally, and his fingers slipped and tripped across the keyboard with no finesse, punching notes in such awkward patterns that it made Alan’s ears ring. He pinched the bridge of his nose, willing away the headache that was building behind his eyes. The lad was truly terrible.

“One more time, Mr. Wilder?” Francis said.

Alan quickly forced a smile onto his face and turned back to Francis. “No, I think that’s good for today.”

“But I messed up the middle part again.”

And the beginning, Alan thought. And the end. “It’s all right. That was much better, Francis. Your best yet.”

The lad beamed up at Alan, his grin so wide it made his cheeks puff up like a chipmunk. “Really? You think I’m ready for the recital?”

“Almost there,” Alan said, patting the boy’s shoulder. “Just a bit more practice, I think, and you’ll be grand.”

Francis grinned even wider and climbed off the piano bench. He stuffed his songbook into his backpack, and Alan saw the mess of crumpled up papers in there, along with beat-up school books and what looked like, and smelled like, an old apple. Francis was a messy boy, and really rather dumb for an 8-year-old, Alan thought, but he had to admire his fighting spirit. He was determined to make a good showing at the recital in two weeks – Alan just wanted his parents to feel like they were getting their money’s worth. It was going to be a close thing.

“Bye, Mr. Wilder!” Francis waved over his shoulder as he skipped out of the room. Alan waved back, and he winced as Francis nearly ran head-on into Alan’s mum. “Sorry, Mrs. Wilder!”

They both waited for the sound of the front door slamming shut, and then Alan said, “I think he’s getting worse.”

“What on earth was he trying to play?” his mum said.

“’Red River Valley.’ I think,” Alan said, and he couldn’t help smiling at the shocked look on his mum’s face. “Please tell me I was never that terrible.”

She leaned in to peck him on the cheek. “You were a prodigy,” she said. “Came out of the womb playing Chopin. It made for a very uncomfortable labor, too.”

Alan laughed, and he kissed her back and said quietly, “Sorry to cause so much trouble, mum.” He thought she understood he wasn’t just talking about the painful birth.

“You always were the difficult one,” she said with a fond smile, and gave him a brief hug. “But you can make it up to me now. We just got a last-minute lesson, and I promised your father I’d meet him at Liberty to buy some shoes. You know how he hates buying shoes.”

“And I know how you love it,” Alan said. “Yeah, all right, go on. I’ll close up when I’m done.”

His mum left, and Alan put away the worksheets and songbooks that had gathered around the studio during the afternoon’s lessons. He’d been working with his mum for two weeks, since he’d arrived in London with no job and no prospects. He wasn’t poor – he’d done a fair job saving money in Los Angeles, and he’d been able to cash out a tidy bit of vacation time when he’d left the magazine – but it didn’t sit well with him to not earn any money. His mum had been teaching piano for decades, and she’d been all too eager to let Alan take over some of her students. Mostly the younger students, of course – especially the boys and girls who played as though they were wearing mittens. Thick, woolen, hand-made mittens.

It’d been easier than he’d expected to pick up and leave Los Angeles, and in hindsight, he thought he’d probably stayed too long, both in the city, and in his career. He’d really never stopped calling London home, and he’d never put down any roots in California – even his relationships had burned out fast, usually after only a few weeks, and Alan wondered now if there’d been some part of him reluctant to get too comfortable in Los Angeles, to commit to his life there.

Probably Dave wouldn’t have lasted long either, Alan thought with a sigh, stacking a pile of songbooks and stuffing them under the piano bench. He was doing all right in London. He’d made good progress on the novel, and he’d already met once with Gareth, who’d seemed interested in Alan’s proposal. It was nice to be near his family, and to be reunited with old friends, and just to be home again. He knew without doubt he’d made the right decision. Still, he hadn’t been able to shake off a lingering darkness that felt something like sadness or remorse. It would have been easy to blame his melancholy on the perpetually gray London skies – or the outrageous rent he was paying for a two-bedroom flat – but he knew there was more to it.

The bell in the front room rang, and Alan startled – he hadn’t heard the door open. “Come on back,” he said, and took one more look about the studio. A breeze blew through the room and he went back to the window to shut it, so he wouldn’t forget before leaving. Behind him he heard a knock.

“Hello, I’m Alan-” he said and turned to face his new pupil, and his voice froze in his throat.

Dave was standing in the doorway, a small smile on his face. He gave a little wave and walked into the room.

“I hope I’m not disturbing,” Dave said. He glanced about the room, and then locked eyes with Alan.

“No,” Alan said, shaking his head. His heart was racing. “I was just finishing. Jesus, Dave. What the hell are you doing here?”

“It’s a long story, actually,” Dave said, and he walked over to the piano and trailed the fingers of one hand over the keys, so the smooth, high sound echoed around the room. “See, my songwriter left me, so I’m on my own now. Figured I should learn how to play if I’m going to write my own stuff.”

Alan stared at him, stunned, still trying to wrap his head around the idea of Dave here, in this room, talking to him again. It took a moment for Dave’s words to sink in, and he blinked and said, “Martin left?”

Dave nodded. “It was about time, really. He needs to be doing his own thing. I guess I do too.”

“Yeah,” Alan said faintly, “I suppose you do.”

“So, you think you can do it? Teach me, I mean?” Dave sat on the piano bench, and he placed both hands on the keys. “I hear you know a thing or two about songwriting.”

“Dave-”

“I read the article,” Dave said, staring at his hands. “It was good. You were good.”

“I’m sorry,” Alan said, even as he was flooded with relief, his shoulders sagging with it. “I’m sorry about all of it.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t believe in you,” Dave said, and Alan smiled, because Dave really had read the article. Dave turned and gave him a shy, guarded smile. “Did you really leave because of me?”

Alan frowned for a moment, and then he laughed and shook his head, and he joined Dave on the piano bench. “No, that was for me, mate. You think I’d quit a decent job because your feelings were hurt?”

“My feelings?” Dave said, his eyebrows lifting. “What about my career? I could’ve been ruined.”

“You? Ruined by some bloody gossip mag?”

“A lot of people read that article,” Dave said. “I know, because they keep asking me to sign it.”

“Well it was a bloody good article, wasn’t it?”

They both laughed, and it felt so easy and normal, and Alan was glad beyond words that Dave had stopped by, if only to clear the air between them. Even if they had no future together, he thought maybe they could be friends, and maybe that would be plenty.

“How’d you find me?” Alan said. “I know for a fact I’m not the only Alan Wilder out there, and I didn’t exactly leave a forwarding address.”

“Fletch,” Dave said. “He didn’t know where you were, but he thought I might find you in London. It was easy enough to find you once I had a city.”

“And you couldn’t have called?” Alan said.

“I was already here, figured I might as well stop by in person.”

“You’re touring Europe already? I thought that started in another two weeks,” Alan said.

Dave grinned, and Alan realized he’d given away too much, admitting he’d been following Dave’s schedule.

“It does,” Dave said. “But I live here now.”

Alan stared at him. “You moved to London?”

“A few days ago,” Dave said. “Jack’s here. And I was done with New York, I think. Or New York was done with me. I guess it was time to come home.”

“Yeah,” Alan said, “I know what you mean.”

They were both quiet for a moment, and Dave started tapping random notes on the piano, and his leg was jiggling up and down, and Alan couldn’t help but smile, pleased to see Dave nervous and fidgety. His own heart was still beating wildly, and he wasn’t sure if it was still the shock of seeing Dave again, or the thrill of sitting so close to him now.

Dave turned to him on the bench. “Hey, I thought you journalist blokes had some rule against putting yourself in the story. Isn’t that unethical or something?”

“Actually, you were the one who put me in the story when you played that stupid song,” Alan said.

“Oh yeah, I reckon that was my fault,” Dave said, not looking a bit guilty about it.

“Anyway, I’m not a journalist anymore, so I don’t have to worry about silly things like professional ethics,” Alan said.

“So does that mean we can do this again?” Dave said.

And he leaned in and kissed Alan, and it was such a surprise that Alan just sat there for a moment, eyes open, heart pounding in his chest. The kiss was soft at first, and then not soft at all, and Dave’s tongue slipped past Alan’s lips, over his teeth. Alan finally closed his eyes and moaned into Dave’s mouth, and he tilted his head and kissed back with enthusiasm, with all of the tension and worry of the past few weeks, and the joy of this moment. He slid a hand around Dave’s waist, pulling him closer. Their teeth hit and they both laughed, and when Dave pulled away his lips were wet and very red, and Alan couldn’t help ducking in again to nip at them. Dave tasted sweet, and faintly minty, and warm and familiar, and Alan felt the strangest sense of relief, like he was floating right off the bench.

“Nope,” Alan said, reaching up to stroke the back of Dave’s neck. “No kissing.”

Dave’s eyes popped open and he leaned back, frowning hard at Alan, and Alan couldn’t help laughing.

“I’m not allowed to make out with my students,” Alan said.

“You’re fired then,” Dave said, and he kissed Alan again.

But later that night, in Alan’s flat, which was empty except for a bed and a piano, Dave got his first lesson. It turned out he was a natural.

 

 

The end.


End file.
